


The Sky is Tomorrow

by aftersoon (notboldly)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, F/M, First Time, Friendship, Illnesses, M/M, Romance, Sky Pirates, Slash, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/aftersoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony knew that finding Dr. Erskine was a long shot, but it wasn't in him to admit defeat without exhausting every option. Steampunk!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is technically complete, but I'm doing minor updates on the remaining chapters. Expect it to be completely up by next Monday. :)

They'd told him that his best bet was with the Red Captain and her Charlotte, but as much as Tony knew his options were few, he looked at the ship listing near the dock and couldn't help but think there was still time to turn back. The ship knocked gently against metal, not fazing the woman in the captain's hat who stood at the starboard side. Charlotte's captain was slim with curly crimson hair and a pale, fine-featured face smudged lightly with dirt, and she wore clothes that were too loose in addition to her cap, bargain items or hand-me-downs that carried dust from the air. She was hardly anyone's idea of a seasoned airship captain, and the Charlotte matched, a ghostly gray shape designed to blend with the clouds but one that was colored by rust and weathered until there was no gleam left to her metal. An older model meant primarily for cargo, Charlotte had only four propellers to compliment her steam engine. Tony, having never set foot on an active airship in his life, couldn't help but plant his feet firmly on slated dock as he watched the metal blades tremble in the breeze, the pier the last remaining connection to sturdy ground. He watched the Charlotte sway and dip and hoped his excitement didn't show on his face and that the Red Captain didn't see the way his heart, that weak organ, hammered in his chest with a staccato just a little off-beat. He hoped, but her eyes were cool and green, her gaze unimpressed, and then she turned away. She resumed polishing the hull, unmindful of how close she was to the edge of an unfathomable drop through open sky.

"No passengers. We're only here for provisions," she stated without turning, voice brusque and disinterested, short syllables to match the quick swipes of terry cloth working against metal. Tony shifted, tightening his grip on the single strap of his deliberately ratty bag as he dug through the outermost pocket.

"I can pay up front. In full." She paused but didn't turn, and he continued, his voice as coaxing as he could make it, his hand outstretched and brimming with coins. "Standard room and board, maybe a month at the long shot."

The cloth fell to the deck, soundless as it landed next to the bottle of polish. The Red Captain turned to look at him, studying the golden coins in his hands for a moment before her eyes dropped to the loose vinyl of his bag. She must have been contemplating accepting, but only so she could rob him and toss him overboard; he would have considered the same in her position, in a town like this and with a ship like that. All the same, Tony's determination didn't falter, nor did his hands. No pirates, the men at the local tavern had promised him, and he'd taken their word. He'd had no choice; he'd had no time, because as much as he wished it, turning back really _wasn't_ an option.

The Red Captain studied him as much as she had the coins.

"Where are you headed? If it's on the way, I'll consider it."

"I'm not headed anywhere. I'm looking for someone." Tony closed his fingers over the coins to distract them both. "An old friend of my father's."

She smiled at him. The expression was small and nearly lost on her dirty face, but it was disarmingly lovely all the same. Tony thought of the revolver at her hip, barely visible underneath her short coat; no doubt she knew how to use it.

"We don't do search and rescue, I'm afraid. Try another ship; I'm sure one will pass through eventually."

She made to turn back around, to dismiss him a second time. Tony thought of another redhead with titan hair down to her waist rather than carelessly chopped curls, and his fingers tightened involuntarily as he pushed the image aside. The coins clinked against one another, a chime in the silence.

"It's nothing like that. If there's any rescuing to be had, I'll do it myself."

She didn't know— _couldn't_ have known—that Tony had never held a gun much less fired one, but she ignored his boast all the same.

"I'm sure you will. Still, finding a lost person, in this day and age?" She shook her head, her curls bouncing with a gentle motion that distracted from the mocking lilt to her voice. "That will take far longer than a month, I guarantee it."

"Then the month upfront, and the rest as necessary."

She was considering it, despite her words to the contrary. Tony could see it; he had always had an eye for weakening resolve, and in times like this, money far outweighed inconvenience. Her eyes flickered to the coins a second time.

"Who?"

"Abraham Erskine. He was…a chemist. He went missing almost twenty years ago."

"Twenty years ago." She sounded thoughtful, and Tony knew that she was undeterred by the gap, unlike the others who had thought his goal was foolish. The Red Captain, they'd said, was always willing to do what others wouldn't. "I'll do it for double. First month now, but miss a payment after that and we'll leave you wherever we happen to be at the time. Land optional."

"That's fine." Tony reached into his bag and pulled out the rest of the requested coins, letting them fall gently into her extended hands. The expression she shot him was dubious at best, but the money disappeared into the breast pocket of her coat without hesitation.

"With money like that, a man could buy his own ship, and a search party."

"I don't like to be so open with my personal business. So?"

She shrugged, her coat jostling. The seams across her shoulders didn't line up perfectly; she wore a man's coat, albeit one meant for a small man." You can call me Captain Rushman, or Natia. And you are?"

Tony thought of the search bulletins, of the announcements, of the fake funeral. He thought of Obie, and he thought of Pepper and Rhodey, both still thankfully alive. It wasn't a hard decision to make, and he stuck out his hand.

"It's Edward. My name's Edward."

She didn't believe him in the slightest, clearly, but she shook his hand anyway. One fake name deserved another, he supposed.

"Edward. Welcome aboard."

****

The inside of the Charlotte was similar to conceptual designs Tony had seen before, a large ovoid with a control center at the nose and an engine in the center. As she was a cargo ship, personnel quarters lined the curved wall of the port side, kept up and out of the way and accessible only after climbing precarious stairs to the suspended catwalks. It was there that Natia led him first, her steps careful and light. Tony didn't comment on the sluggish way the fourth piston compressed as they passed the engine, because contrary to popular opinion, he had tact when it suited him. Insulting the ship in front of the captain herself was a good way to find himself back on the dock with his first month's payment pocketed, and Tony wasn't such a show-off that it seemed worth the risk (well, not past the initial urge, anyway.) He would have a word with the main mechanic, later and in private, because although the person in question was _clearly_ incompetent, it wouldn't do him any good to make enemies there either.

Once they reached the top of the stairs, Tony revised his plan. In a row of six sets of rooms, only two of them had signs labeled OCCUPIED, one noticeably the captain's quarters. The more he considered it, the more he thought the entire ship seemed empty, devoid of noise and most likely devoid of _people_. He was forced to consider the fact that perhaps there wasn't a mechanic on-board, and that struck him as strange. Flying with a bare bones crew was dangerous at the best of times; flying with a bare bones crew without someone who knew the ins and outs of the ship's soul, every crevice and gear, was worse.

Captain Rushman was either very foolish, very poor, or very brave. Tony couldn't decide which it was, but he felt almost at home for the first time in months: a woman after his own heart, one way or another.

When she pushed inside the third set of quarters, Tony followed. She crossed the narrow room in five strides, and with him behind her, the space seemed distinctly crowded. The furnishings were standard and almost beneath notice—one bed, one sink, one toilet, one shelf, and one small box for personal items or clothes—and the bronze was unpolished, the mattress thin and stiff. There was no dust, but the smell around them was musky, the air still; clearly no one had been in here for a long time.

Tony tossed his bag to the side and smiled flirtatiously, an old habit, a tactic to distract from the rattle in his bag of a fortune's worth of coins.

"Is this the grand tour, then? I can't say I'd mind if you wanted to stay."

She smiled faintly, and Tony didn't push his luck as she shoved past him, probably gentler than she could have been. "Cute. Not in this lifetime, but cute."

Tony held a hand up to his heart, his face holding a wounded expression.

"Ouch. Your husband?"

"No. I'm a widow." She smiled again, another disarming grin. "Guess how he died."

"Point taken."

She laughed as they left the room, a burst of sound unrelated to Tony's comments, and Tony let her lead him, let her close the door firmly behind him and demonstrate the simple locking mechanism. As they passed the other occupied rooms, she pounded once on each. The first, she explained, belonged to Clint, the man who was her second, her friend, and their pilot. Tony was curious as to where she'd been lucky enough to find a pilot capable of handling such an old behemoth as Charlotte. He'd assumed the job had fallen to Natia herself, as was the usual way of things; hearing differently was a surprise, and so he asked.

"He's been with me as long as I can remember," she explained. "He's the most trustworthy man I know, and you'll meet him." It wasn't a question, but it also wasn't a statement of the obvious fact that living in a near-empty ship for months meant that not meeting someone was a virtual impossibility. "If you need anything procured for you that's not at our stops, he can find it eventually. He's resourceful that way."

Tony nodded in confirmation when she glanced back at him, and her fist rapped across the second door.

"These are my quarters. Don't bother me when I'm here, ever. I don't give a damn what the emergency is." She waited for Tony's nod and then continued on, her boots heavy on the metal grates as she moved back down the stairs. The engine fired its sixth piston; Tony winced at the resulting whine, but said nothing as they passed through a long hallway, turned right and then right again to stop in front of a locked door. Tony wasn't so pampered that he didn't recognize the room inside for a tiny dining area, a smaller steam engine made into a makeshift stove and the chairs and table composed of simple rectangular prisms, most likely salvage from another vessel. He wasn't sure how he felt about sitting on jaggedly cut and surely rusted metal, but times were hard, had been hard since before he'd been born; he wasn't in a position to judge, and "Edward" certainly wasn't either.

Natia explained, unnecessarily.

"This is the dining area. We eat here twice a day, at 10 and then at 6. You're expected to come to those meals or not eat at all, because we can't afford the special treatment and we can't afford to have people picking around the supplies. When we're not eating, this room is locked."

She demonstrated by sliding the door shut and padlocking it. The lock would have been simple enough to pick, but Tony didn't even consider doing so. He doubted stealing was a forgivable offense.

"And the store room?"

Natia focused too much on making sure the lock was secure, tugging once then twice at the padlock.

"To the starboard side, across from the personnel quarters. You won't be allowed there." She pointed over her shoulder, the direction indistinct. "The control panel is at the front of the ship. Basic navigations system, basic pilot station, minimal weapons."

"I'm not allowed there either, correct?" Tony smiled when she nodded, although it was more like a grimace. "You sure have a lot of rules."

"They're for your own good, and ours," she replied cryptically, and then she looked at him in silence for a second or two. "One last thing. This probably won't come up, but don't bother the good doctor. He's been with us since Penkinesh, and he has seniority."

"Penkinesh? The mining town?" Tony had never been, but he'd heard. Graves on top of mines and mines on top of graves, it was one of those few places that brave men did not venture, much less good people. "What kind of doctor would live there?"

"I didn't ask." She looked at him blankly, clearly daring him to pry. For once in his life, Tony didn't. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah." He smiled again, because never let it be said that he didn't try, or that he didn't push. "What's your real name?"

She shrugged. The coins in her pocket jangled.

"If you don't like Natia, you can call me Natalie." Tony stored that away as she turned, back to business. Necessary business. "Now if you're through chatting, come with me. We have a journey to plan."

Tony watched her walked away, watched her coat sway, and he couldn't help thinking of a lady in a satin gown. He followed, obedient for the first time in his life.

****

It was through mutual disagreement that they decided their first stop among many would be Thilum, the last city to the West. It was primarily Natalie's suggestion, the alternative she offered after shooting down Tony's proposal of Ormona, the last known town Dr. Erskine had been spotted in. Her reasons, she replied tersely, were her own, but Tony was unused to being given orders that he couldn't question, and he didn't accept that explanation. However, his attempts to push for more information were met with stubborn resistance and the offer that if he didn't like her decisions, he was more than free to leave.

Their raised voices naturally attracted attention, so Tony wasn't surprised when a man with sandy brown hair popped his head around the corner.

"Hello, Nat," he greeted before glancing to Tony, his blue eyes inquisitive. "Who's this?"

"Clint. This—" Natalie reached across the table and poked Tony in the chest, hard. "—is Edward. He's going to be joining us for a while. Months maybe, but possibly only minutes if he _keeps arguing with me._ "

Clint's expression didn't get any more welcoming, but he did stick out his hand. It was callused and cracked, dirty under the nails, but Tony shook it anyway.

"Sure, sure. Nice to meet you." Clint immediately turned to Natalie and smiled. "He's arguing with you? Brave man."

Natalie didn't say anything, just fixed Tony with an unreadable look.

"We're going to Thilum."

Clint hummed, pulling up a stool and balancing himself neatly at the dining table, clearly intending for a long stay. "Really? What for? Weren't we just there?"

"Yes." She gave Clint the sort of fond, commanding look that made Tony remember better days long past, a request for silence and understanding. Unlike when his mother had used it on his father, however, this time it didn't work, and Tony toyed with and then discarded the idea that they were something other than partners and friends.

"Why?"

Quiet exasperation was her only response, so Tony answered instead.

"I'm looking for someone. Natalie was kind enough to volunteer her help."

" _Natalie_ did?" Tony nodded, taking note of the emphasis. Wrong name again, then. "Well, that was nice of her. Thilum it is."

Clint smiled again, but only at Natalie. Tony got the impression he smiled more than he rightly should have, or maybe that he used it as a distraction. From what, Tony couldn't imagine; there was nothing particularly remarkable about him on the outside, an average man of sturdy build with rough-worn hands. He looked like the sort of person Tony had seen in farms he'd passed and then in taverns he'd visited, their bodies worn to the bones from working in the mines. Seeing him sitting him next to Natalie, however, gave the impression of _quality_ and _complexity_. If Natalie was a portrait, stunning in her singularity, Clint was clearly the frame that kept her steady.

Only a fool would try and upset that, Tony thought, and it made him feel warm. Some people just fit, in every way that mattered…and going up against them, whatever the case, was a terrible idea. He didn't argue any longer; he knew he wouldn't win, but more importantly, Thilum was as good of a place to start as any.

****

Adapting to living in the sky took much longer than Tony had anticipated, primarily because there was no grace period; as soon as he’d agreed to their destination of Thilum, Clint nodded and returned to the control station. The order for takeoff was unnecessary but given regardless, and Natalie disappeared to untie the ship from the dock and put away the supplies Clint had recently acquired. Tony was grateful he had caught the two of them when he had; another hour or two, and they would have been long on their way without him.

When Charlotte started moving, however, his gratitude fell somewhere to the area of his stomach. Having never flown on an airship before, he erroneously assumed that the flight would be smooth, gentler even than a ship on water. While it might have been true in normal circumstances, choppy winds combined with a jittery engine made the takeoff less like a launch and more like a tumble into open air.

Tony fell, naturally, landing hard on one knee before slipping to all fours against smooth metal flooring. Natalie laughed from where she held onto a nearby rail, the casual pose offset by the way her legs were braced on the floor.

"Careful there, Edward. It'll take a while to get the balance for it." Another lurch was followed by the hiss and whine of the engine, and then—acting as if on cue—Natalie released her grip and resumed walking to the control room.

"You should really get that engine fixed," Tony shouted after her, just to be obtuse. Her answering laugh was nearly drowned out by the sound of propellers, and Tony assumed that the kitchen was only a metal wall away from the spinning blades. It wasn't a comforting thought, and he slipped and skid away from the area with all the grace and speed he could manage under the circumstances. He considered it one of his bravest moments when he climbed the precarious stairs even while the Charlotte still shook, and stumbling inside his room seemed like the hardest part of the journey, and therefore the most rewarding. He flopped on his bed and listened to the wind roar, his stomach rolling and his body shaking too hard for the exertion. His bag rattled, and with it the coins inside; he tried not to think about it.

Dinner, or what passed as dinner, didn't help his nausea at all. He hadn't expected gourmet food or even fresh food, but what they had was standard transport staples and thus less than appetizing. The barley mash was slimy but nutritious, of that he had no doubt, and he had read enough about airships to know that the jerky, over salted to such a degree that the origin of the meat was concealed, was already a luxury. Tony chewed it morosely and forced himself to swallow, mindful of the way Clint and Natalie watched him in silence, gazes moving in perfect unison.

Tony slept fitfully that night, dreaming of being watched. Breakfast—oatmeal and more jerky—was much the same as his first meal, and the experience was unnerving, perhaps intentionally so. With his stomach still unsettled from the uneven flight and his balance still unsteady, he made the decision to take the coward's way out, retreating to his room.

He remained there for weeks, seeing not a soul except during mealtimes. He supposed they liked it that way, pretending he wasn't there except for when his presence was absolutely required. Tony just rolled onto his side and let them be, confident that it was better this way. The doctors had said to rest, although perhaps a jittery machine held aloft by delicate wings wasn't their first choice. When Charlotte passed through Thilum with barely any trouble not two weeks later, Tony was still in his room, still "resting:; upon finding nothing, no trace of Dr. Erskine, they continued onto Namopis and then Arcul. For weeks, he felt the shudder of air around them, the turbulent flow and flux of storms passing by, and when he raised a hand to his cheeks, he felt a thick beard and surprised himself. Felt sorry for himself, resting in his bed and longing for all that he'd left behind.

However, there were only so many days he could spend reflecting, wondering what Pepper and Rhodey were doing without him. There were only so many days he could spend lying in bed with his hand over his heart, feeling his own heartbeat to convince himself it was there. There were only so many times he could tell himself that he liked it this way, liked being alone and forgotten, before he forced himself to stop. Moping and longing did nothing, and he was Tony Stark; cowering in the faint light of a single window with his door barred against the outside world just wasn't his style. 

Although his feet were unsteady, he forced himself to walk as he always had. When Natalie and Clint were still unable to hide their amusement at his wobbly steps, he talked until they couldn't stand to be around him. It worked for the most part because they were silent by nature, he guessed, but the more he talked, undeterred, the more they tentatively responded. "Tentative" was also not Tony's style, and so he pushed further, and was rewarded with information, with knowledge. Over meals of indistinguishable mash and grain and complaints about the rising cost of water and soap, he learned about their lives.

Natalie's real name wasn't Natalie, that much was confirmed, but she _was_ a widow, at least as far as she knew. Her husband had disappeared eight years ago, and Natalie being Natalie had refused to wait for him for long, waiting only a year before leaving an empty grave behind in Ormona while she took to the skies. The story was given quickly and without fanfare but swimming in guilt, and Tony wasn't surprised that she was at her most honest when speaking about circumstances she couldn't fight. Tony knew the tale to be the truth, just as he knew that Clint's real name was William Clint Barton and that he kept wanted posters with his face on them tucked underneath his bed. Tony didn't think to ask for an explanation in most cases, but where Natalie provided information only in the face of direct questioning, Clint volunteered tidbits when he felt like it, seemingly random but always important.

Clint loved Natalie with all his heart, as her friend and her partner. She loved him the same. They would die for each other because they'd promised, a promise made long ago when she'd found him, courtesy of those same wanted posters.

Clint kept injured birds, because they always seemed to be flying into the side of the ship while they were docked. He didn't like pets, but he kept them there to heal, only asking for a few feathers in return. The result was heaps of homemade arrows that he showed off proudly and—or so he boasted—a skill with a bow that he couldn't really demonstrate inside the ship or out.

Clint didn't remember his birthday, so Natalie had given him hers. She said she didn't care, but when he'd pressed, she'd given him a different one. She'd insisted. He hadn't asked.

The good doctor wouldn't hurt a fly if he could help it, but as much as they insisted on this (they both did, often, always using that particular moniker rather than a name) it was best if Tony just didn't bother him. Tony had a hard time believing the man actually existed since he was never spotted, not even in passing, not even during meals, and he occupied no rooms. He wanted to ask, but it took him only a month to learn that there were some things neither of them would talk about, and numbered among them was anyone else's secrets. 

Although it went against Tony's better instincts, he didn't press, because Natalie asked him if he had any family and Clint called him "Eddie," and they reminded him so much of Pepper and Rhodey that he _ached_ , a physical presence as real as flight sickness.

Yet somehow despite it all, Tony felt safer than he had in years. Although he stumbled, he knew someone would help him up eventually.

****

Their smooth sailing didn't last long past the two month mark, and while Tony had truthfully expected it to end much sooner, these were not the circumstances he had imagined. Finding himself on the business end of a pistol held by a giant man with a head of long blond hair was an unexpected turn to the morning, and he froze, hands held in midair as he raised his face from his sink. Tony's heart gave a startled thump against his rib cage; he hadn't even heard him come in, and when considering he must have used those creaking, unstable stairs, that was quite a feat. 

"How did you get in here?" Tony meant not just his rooms but the ship itself, sailing thousands of feet above open ocean. It was difficult to board an airship in flight, he'd heard, but then, he supposed pirates found ways to do so. Although good sense told him he should have been scared, Tony found himself mostly just curious, and a little angry.

The man smiled. His pistol didn't waver, and the scruffy dark-haired man currently tossing Tony's room for valuables laughed heartily.

"That, my friend, is a trade secret." The blond man jerked the pistol to the side and Tony obligingly moved to follow, wincing when his mattress was tipped and the sack of coins was found easily. The scavenger tossed the purse to the gun keeper, who caught it, tested the weight, and smiled wider. The coins were tucked inside the red coat stretched over his broad chest, and—to Tony's surprise—the pistol was holstered almost immediately.

"There is no reason not to be civilized, is there?" He asked Tony, his voice pleasant enough but loud. The other man laughed again and continued to dig, dumping Tony's rucksack and clothes bin on the floor and sorting through each item. His hands snatched cufflinks and found pewter buttons that were then plucked from shirts, touched odd items in an attempt to judge metal purity and studied everything, no matter how minor. Tony had thought he didn't have much beyond the collection of coins, but everything he owned was combed over until there was not even a scrap of value to be found. Tony watched it with a sinking feeling in his stomach, and the smile on his face was brittle.

It took them only minutes to make him penniless, and Tony wasn't feeling very generous or sociable. All his coins, all his hopes, everything he had was harvested, and he didn't know what to do. Were he a braver man, a stronger man, he would have fought. He considered it regardless, and when a hand landed to rest on his shoulder, he nearly snarled. The blond man, the owner of the large hand and clearly the leader of these pirates, just looked at him somberly.

"If you want a fight, we can fight. But I wouldn't recommend it."

"You're taking everything," Tony said, voice flat. The man shrugged.

"Only money. It's not worth dying for." 

_What about living,_ Tony wanted to ask. _Is living worth dying for?_ He didn't ask, unable to form the question in the face of earnest, serious eyes. Struck by the absurdity of the situation, he felt his lips twitch.

"You're not a very good ruthless pirate, are you?"

"You might be surprised," the man replied, and he squeezed Tony's shoulder gently before turning him around and leading him to the stairs. Tony considered knocking him down—rounding them up, that's what these pirates were doing, and the reason couldn't be good—but he didn't. Neither, however, did he go down the stairs when prompted.

When the man looked at him with exasperation, Tony _tried_. Resources. His father had raised him to use his _resources_.

"Since you're robbing me, I don't suppose you could do me a favor?" The man looked more curious than annoyed, and Tony pressed on. "There's a man I'm looking for. Abraham Erskine. That's what the money was for, finding him. I…need to find him."

The man paused, considering. Tony didn't expect anything, so he was surprised when the man nodded.

"Perhaps I know him. If not, perhaps Bucky or my brother does. The world is not that big."

Tony let out a breath. "That's what I thought." He waited, poised on the edge of hope. "Well?"

The man watched him, and watched him.

"If any of us know him, I will find you."

Tony's knees almost shook, but he forced himself to smile as he turned, and this time when a hand prodded him lightly in the back, he went down the steps.

"And not rob me again, right?"

His answer was a loud laugh that echoed through the ship, followed by the footsteps of heavy boots.

"Perhaps." 

Tony couldn't ask for more, and so he didn't. When the man lead him to the control area and Tony saw Clint and Natalie waiting, also at gunpoint, he let out a relieved breath, quietly. They were alive; he hadn't been sure, since they were fighters beyond what he was. And fought they had: he wasn't surprised to see Clint favoring his right arm, or to see the black eye swelling on Natalie's perfect face. If there was any justice in the world, they had given back just as good.

The man who led Tony to them bowed, of all things, and addressed Natalie.

“Would that I had such a courageous woman on my ship, we would surely increase our profit tenfold!”

Natalie didn't look impressed and didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. Before any of them could think of something appropriate to say—"thanks" seemed strange, but "get the hell out" wasn't exactly conductive to good business—the men had already gone, backing away slowly before turning and running. Natalie and Clint trailed their path with pistols drawn, and after silence reigned for a moment, two, Clint gave chase, no doubt to find whatever hole they'd made as an entrance. Neither Natalie nor Tony said anything until he came back, pistol once again at his side, and winked at Natalie.

“You are a brave woman. It was nice of him to notice.”

Natalie made a very un-ladylike sound and put her pistol once again at her side.

“Yes, nice.” She shook her head, looking baffled for a heartbeat before the expression was buried under practicality and necessity. She turned immediately to the control panel, checking for damage. “If he tries to board this ship again, Clint, shoot him in the face. Where’s the good doctor?”

Clint shrugged, shooting Tony a glance.

“Tied up in the store room, I think. Whoever sent them had good intel.” He sounded put out, and he added to the comment almost immediately. “Not _amazing_ , but pretty good.”

Tony heard how carefully the words were chosen: the same secrets. He let it go.

“Fine. Go untie him, then, and get your arm looked at.” Clint left when Natalie flicked her fingers in his direction, and then she turned to Tony, her mouth pinched. “Edward, how much did you lose?”

Tony didn't even consider lying. There was no opportunity to make the money necessary for his board, not here or anywhere, and in a little over three weeks' time, all would be revealed regardless.

“All of it.” Natalie stared, and Tony ran a hand over the back of his neck, forcing a smile. "I suppose you'll be dumping me, then?"

"Not for three weeks," she replied, and then she tilted her head, considering him once again. "Do you have anything to sell? Any skills?"

"Not really, and no, not marketable ones." The control panel gave tinny whine, and Tony paused. Now there was a thought. "Actually, scratch that. I do have _some_ skills." He smirked at Natalie, wide and determined. "How would you like that engine fixed?"

****

In the end, his well-honed knowledge of basic machinery bought him time and not much else, because Natalie was intrigued but pragmatic to a fault. Her offer was a simple one: he could stay so long as he worked on the Charlotte, but he wasn't part of the crew and the money for his room and board would accumulate, a bulk sum that would come due at the end of the ship's repairs. Tony winced but agreed; despite his experience negotiating with people who wanted to give him nothing, he could read the situation enough to know when _he_ was the one who held no bargaining power. Natalie also said they were no longer looking for Dr. Erskine, but that was fair enough; up to this point, they hadn't been searching for him in any logical way anyway, and Tony expected he would just continue to ask questions of the locals as he usually did, regardless of where they stopped.

Natalie looked almost apologetic when she laid out the terms and Tony agreed without conditions, but Tony didn't blame her in the slightest. Natalie was, first and foremost, a survivor; she looked after her own, and Tony was nowhere near as important as Clint or the mysterious doctor, not even considering how friendly the three of them had become over the past two months. Tony didn't blame her at all, and if the thought passed through his mind— _money, I'm always just money to them_ —he didn't voice it. Natalie probably understood anyway, even without knowing his background; before he left the room, she asked him to call her "Natasha" in a tone that made it clear she would accept no arguments. Tony agreed and went back to his room, feeling sick, feeling lost. He skipped dinner. No one came to find him.

When he opened his door the next day, there was a tray of food sitting outside it, cold from the previous night, and he thought, _okay_.


	2. Chapter 2

By Tony's calculations, all the necessary updates and repairs to the machinery and wiring of the ship would take little more than five months, schedule depending on when he could get the parts. He considered attempting to stretch that even further, but he suspected that delaying the work wouldn't wash, not with Clint around. Clint may not have had the technical know-how to do it himself, but he'd spent a good portion of his illustrious career conning people out of money and time, probably more so than most people even in these times. He'd be able to spot the signs from a mile away, of this Tony had no doubt; Clint seemed to have pretty good eyes when it came to these sorts of things. Besides that, five months seemed like as much time as Tony could reasonably excuse; if he couldn't find Erskine after looking for him for seven months, there couldn't be much hope of _ever_ finding him. Five months was long enough.

Two days into the repairs themselves, Tony was starting to wonder if there wasn't a way to speed them up rather than slow them down. After burning himself for the third time on something that should _not_ have been hot, he could barely keep himself from cursing. He shook out his hand and popped the singed finger in his mouth, gagging on the taste of dirt and cooking grease that served as a cheap substitute for machinery-meant oil. 

When he'd predicted these repairs, he hadn't accounted for the fact that he'd have to do them with _nothing_ , without any real tools and without even the most basic supplies. He hadn't accounted for the fact that the machinery was old, practically ancient, and something he'd never had first-hand experience with. Most importantly, he hadn't accounted for the Charlotte being so _cruel_.

She burned him a fourth time, Tony banged his head in surprise, and he let the cursing fly.

"You _rotten hunk of junk_ , I'm going to gut you and turn you into a scrap heap! No, I'm going to _melt_ you down and turn you into toilet seats, you horrible, filthy, second-rate—"

"Um, excuse me?" The voice was tentative and _new_. It matched the pair of shuffling, booted feet Tony could see from the small opening underneath the engine, and he scooted out quickly enough that he almost injured himself further.

The man blinked down at him, grip tightening on the box he was holding under one arm, and despite the fact that Tony could smell burnt hair from the most recent wound on his arm, he _smiled_. About damn time.

The good doctor had dark hair, thick and curly but laced with gray, and he wore a pair of spectacles more complicated than anything Tony had ever seen. His cheeks were dark with stubble, and his clothes were mostly fine quality but worn and slightly too big, each article showing signs of upkeep in the repaired seams and mismatched patches. Tony didn't draw any conclusions from that; having gone months without a decent shave himself and knowing it had been longer since he'd been able to afford the luxury of even _clean_ clothes, Tony knew he looked no better.

The man looked harmless enough, and after two months of deliberate secrecy, the reality was somewhat anti-climactic. Even so, he was a new face on a nearly empty ship, and that was enough to warrant a jaunty smile and a short wave.

"Hi." Tony pointed at the man with the wrench he held in his hand, the only wrench he could find, completely the wrong size and almost useless. "You must be the good doctor."

The good doctor looked at him dubiously, brow wrinkling and eyes narrowing briefly.

"I suppose I must be," he replied slowly, and Tony thought he was about to make a run for it when his grip tightened further on the box. Unexpectedly, he visibly shook off the suspicion and smiled slightly instead. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met? Nobody mentioned we were getting a mechanic."

Tony continued to smile, and he didn't point out the obvious, that you had to _talk_ to people before they could mention anything. He'd dealt with hermits before.

"Not strictly a mechanic." He dropped the wrench with a clatter that made the good doctor flinch, but Tony ignored that, choosing instead to stick out his hand before opportunity was lost. "The name's Edward."

The box shifted, and his hand was gripped tightly by one without calluses. The handshake lasted only a fraction of a second before Tony was released, no doubt because he was covered in dirt and grease.

"Um, I'm Dr. Banner. Bruce Banner." He stumbled over the words and his Adam's apple bobbed noticeably. Tony couldn't help but think the introduction sounded artless and unplanned and honest. It was…surprising, particularly in light of the _lie first, questions later_ mentality of most. "I don't mean to intrude, but do you need any help? You were cursing when I walked by, so I…thought you might be injured. Or something."

Tony immediately shrugged off his actual injuries—minor, they were all minor—and gestured vaguely over his shoulder. Bruce's eyes snapped to follow the direction before returning, a motion that lasted only a microsecond.

"Know anything about steam engines?"

Bruce shifted, and whatever was in the box rattled slightly with the motion.

"Not my area, I'm afraid," he said, voice apologetic, but Tony hadn't expected any different. Frankly, getting help wasn't what he wanted anyway.

"Okay." He reached behind him, under the engine, and pulled out a bent piston, one he had almost decided was headed for an _actual_ scrap heap. "Do you happen to have a hammer I can bang this out with, then? One stashed away wherever you hide during the day, maybe?"

Bruce hesitated. "I might." He retracted the tentative answer almost immediately, with a shake of his head and a half step back. "I mean, I don't think so. Probably not."

Tony smiled, trying his best to look innocent instead of overly curious, which was the actual truth. The good doctor…he'd finally met him, and so help him, Tony wouldn't end this day without finding out where he lived.

"Can I look?" Bruce stared at him, and Tony held up his hands. "Hey, no hard feelings if not. You're a private person, I get it." He fiddled with the piston, doing his best to look pitiful. "I mean, I just don't have any tools. This isn't the sort of work I'd expected to be doing."

That, at least, seemed to strike a chord. Bruce still hesitated—suspicious, and Tony supposed there must have been basis for it at some point—but he also seemed willing to take the chance. To help. Tony liked that; he found it surprising and a little naïve, but he liked it all the same.

"I suppose so." Bruce looked like he regretted the concession almost immediately, but he didn't take the offer back, just waited until Tony pushed himself to his feet. With his free hand, he gestured to the wrong side of the ship. "I live in the storage room, so there might be something there."

"The storage room?" Well, that explained why he was a veritable ghost, never encountered before. It was odd, though, and Tony pondered it as they walked. He followed Bruce by two steps, and to the right; he hoped it made him visible at all times. "Why the storage room?"

"In case of emergencies," Bruce responded, and then he shifted the box of—Food? Medicine?—in order to fumble with the lock at the door. This lock was more complicated than the one that guarded the kitchen, and Tony almost whistled; he recognized the design, thought _expensive_ and _top of the line_. He should know, since he'd designed it not two months before he'd…left.

Tony turned away politely until he heard the distinct snap of the opened lock, and when he turned back around, Bruce smiled at him faintly.

"Could you hold this for a moment?"

Tony accepted the box without thought, nearly stumbled at the weight, but he braced himself in time. Bruce opened three separate doors, followed by a chain fence, and if Tony had been curious before, he was even more so now. He glanced up but didn't comment; the extra doors and latches said it all, said that Charlotte had been meant for transporting _live_ cargo, possibly animals, and that she was prepared to dump at the sign of trouble, when speed over wealth was preferable or when the cargo bay, for whatever reason, became dangerous. It wasn't a design feature Tony had ever thought to see in person since they had gone out of fashion long before he was born, and it certainly wasn't somewhere he would have expected anyone to live.

Well, maybe Tony would have lived there, but he was used to being on the edge, danger for the sake of danger. Bruce seemed…less so, but as they stepped carefully over the doorstep, Tony thought he understood.

Beyond the opening was the storage room, yes, filled with metal boxes piled according to an organizational chart pinned neatly on the wall. However, near the center of the room was also a small curtained area—a living space, no doubt—and next to it was a broad, large table covered with things Tony hadn't expected to see out here, or possibly ever again. Beakers. Pipets. Graduated cylinders. Heaps and heaps of _books_ , actual paper and bound books the towered higher than Tony himself, and the entire table was surrounded by padding, no doubt meant to prevent serious accidents when the ship rocked and jerked. The space was large, much larger than any of the individual quarters, and it was filled with natural light, bright enough that Tony had to blink against the glare off metal.

It was wonderful, and Tony knew he was grinning when he looked back at Bruce. He knew, because Bruce looked faintly alarmed and a little surprised.

“Are you a chemist?”

It seemed like the first natural conclusion, but Bruce shook his head.

“Alchemist,” he corrected, looking like he was braced for _something_ , and Tony did whistle this time. 

“Ah _ha_.” Bruce jumped, and Tony handed him the box, partly to distract him but mostly because Tony thought he might start shaking with excitement. “That would be the reason Clint and the Red Captain seem content to let you do whatever you want back here.”

Tony had met alchemists before, courtesy of his wealthy family. His father had called alchemy “the only biased science,” and Tony had been fascinated for many years by the idea that the result of an experiment could vary from person to person when the ingredients and procedure did not. It was amazing…and, of course, any useful alchemist had a specialty. Some specialized in repair, some in weaponry, some in food, and the good ones—the _really_ good ones—could make a fortune at their calling. Enough to rent an entire storage room long term, for instance.

“I suppose so.” Bruce sighed as if he knew exactly where Tony's mind had gone, but then his expression turned contemplative and he smiled faintly a second time. “The Red Captain?"

“Not like I know her name."

“Fair point,” Bruce replied, moving around him to set the box on the table. He began to unpack it, not glancing up as he unloaded the various colored powders and liquids. "As you can see, I don't think I'll have much that can help you with your repairs."

Since Tony had come to the same conclusion after spotting the first glint of light off glassware, he merely shrugged and turned to the organizational chart, feigning deep interest in its contents. He was only going to borrow something, he told himself. Nobody ever had to know, he was certain, and so he moved resolutely to the nearest box in a pile of what was listed as _miscellaneous_. He thought Bruce would take the opportunity to start ignoring him, so he was surprised when he heard him come stand beside him, looking through another box. He was more surprised when Bruce actually continued _talking_ to him, albeit with eyes fixed on the items in his hands, the shine of his spectacles emphasizing their focus. 

“Is your name actually Edward?” It was such a soft question, easily ignored if that was the way Tony wanted it.

“Sure,” Tony replied with a determined grin, and Bruce nodded, accepting that but likely not believing it. Tony continued before he thought better of it. “Although that’s not what my friends call me.”

Bruce glanced at him quickly, then closed his box and moved on to another.

“What do your friends call you?”

“Tony.” Bruce shot him a doubtful look, and Tony just tried to look baffled. “I know, I’m surprised too.”

Bruce laughed. It was short and to-the-point, barely there and a little rusty, but honest. Tony wondered if he looked as surprised as Bruce did, but the moment passed quickly, relatively unnoticed. Almost.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tony,” Bruce said quietly, with a soft smile. Tony pretended not to notice that the expression seemed honest too.

They dug until they found a meat mallet, which—while not exactly a hammer—was close enough. With his reasonable excuse for being there gone, Tony left quietly without being asked.

He didn't think he imagined that Bruce looked almost reluctant to see him go.

****

If Tony had been the sort of guy who needed an invitation, he suspected he would have been waiting for one until he was long dead and turned to dust. As much as Bruce seemed not to mind him, it was clear that the man wasn’t in the habit of asking for company, and Tony was…difficult to approach at the best of times. Naturally, it took only a few hours of working on Charlotte's engine the next day before Tony realized abruptly that Bruce had bothered with him when he could have just as easily walked away, and that was worth the effort. However hesitant the good doctor seemed about _everything_ , Tony was surprised to find himself interested regardless, almost without his permission. If nothing else, alchemy—and the promises it held—was reason enough to brave the potential walls of an anti-social man.

After Tony came to yet another standstill in his work (the mallet had worked fine, thank you, but he could hardly fix everything by banging it with a hammer) he went to the first meal of the day, gave Natasha and Clint a courtesy report on the repairs, and then immediately turned around and detoured from his quarters to the storage room. He knocked because he felt it was best not to be hated from the onset, and picking locks without permission tended to wear out his welcome long before he actually went inside. He knocked a second time when there was no answer, this series of knocks much louder than the first. 

He wondered, belatedly, if maybe he'd misinterpreted. Maybe Bruce had just been interested in seeing the ship repaired, and maybe he had been happy to be rid of him the day before.

Before he could knock a third time or change his mind, there were sounds of motion beyond the doors, the rattle of the chain link fence. Tony waited, and when the outermost door cracked open to reveal a pair of familiar spectacles, he put on his friendliest, least threatening smile.

"Tony?" Bruce sounded like he couldn't decide between surprise and suspicion, but he opened the door slightly wider, at least enough to reveal his surprisingly clean-shaven face and the slightest hint of a wrinkled shirt with uneven buttons.

"Hey, Bruce," Tony said, as casual as if they were childhood friends. Bruce remained quiet, so Tony held up the mallet in his hand, the secondary reason he'd come knocking. "Returning the hammer, remember?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, of course." Bruce ducked his chin, looking embarrassed as he held out his hand for the mallet. Tony pulled it slightly out of reach.

"Also, I was wondering if I could borrow a book. I noticed you had some."

"A book?" Bruce repeated, and Tony wondered where the confusion was. "You like to read?" His tone was cautiously excited, and the door opened a little further.

"Me? I love to read." That wasn't exactly true; Tony had never enjoyed sitting and not doing, so reading—when he'd done it in his younger years—had been abject torture. Tony admitted that his enthusiasm now was a combination of nostalgia and curiosity, because he missed his old life, missed the luxury of something as simple (but expensive) as _books_ , and alchemy was an unexplored subject.

Besides, Tony appreciated that the question had been if he _liked_ to read rather than if he _could_ read, and that was enough motivation to lie a little, especially when it made Bruce smile wide before he quickly tried to hide it.

"I suppose that's fine, then. Um, come in." He held the door open but didn't move for a single awkward moment. When he finally did, he looked more embarrassed than before; the expression _kicking himself_ jumped immediately to Tony's mind. 

Tony smiled in sympathy and headed deliberately for the nearest pile of books without saying a word. It was the least he could do, considering Bruce had let him into his sanctuary. Other than a quick detour to replace the mallet, he remained focused on that rather than on Bruce's little idiosyncrasies.

He was distracted by a half-full beaker, eyes caught by its contents, which were gently boiling and vibrant orange.

"What're you working on?"

Bruce brushed by him to add some indistinct white powder to the mix, stirring it gently. When it was completely mixed, the result turned purple.

"Benzylpenicillin." At Tony's startled look he explained further, missing the way Tony's heart had started to race, surely sending his pulse jumping obviously in his throat. "It's an antibiotic." Tony continued to stare and Bruce coughed, turning his eyes downward and fumbling with the delicate glassware in his hands. "It's simple to produce by normal means, of course, but it's much easier and faster to create with alchemy."

"You're a _medical_ alchemist?" Bruce nodded shallowly, and Tony grinned. Couldn't help it—medical alchemists were extremely rare, very in demand, and exclusively decent people. "That's _amazing_."

Bruce laughed once, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck as he did so.

"Oh. Um, thank you." He changed the subject. Quickly, Tony noticed. "You can pick any book you like. I don't mind."

"Yeah?" Tony grabbed the first one off the nearest pile, a large black volume that—when opened—revealed tables of ingredients and their properties, recommended doses and jargon Tony didn't recognize. He replaced it with a thinner volume, light gray and with the innocuous title of _Alchemic Precautions_. Bruce had gone back to his work, seemingly ignoring him. Tony decided to push just a little more. "Mind if I stay here and read it?" He held up his hand again, repeating his tried and true dismissal when Bruce looked up at him with surprise. "No hard feelings, remember?"

"No, that's fine." The implied rest of the reply— _I don't know why you'd want to_ —went unsaid while Bruce looked around, seemingly for a second stool. When he found none, he smiled, almost sheepishly. "It's been a while since I've really had company," he explained unnecessarily.

Tony shrugged. "Let me help." Without a single protest, he sat on the floor, back resting against the cool metal of a storage box. Bruce watched with half a smile, and Tony made a show of settling in for a long stay. "See? Perfect."

Bruce didn't respond except to say "enjoy your book," quietly and almost absently, before he went back to silence and back to his work. All the same, as hours passed and Tony became absorbed in the material, he didn't miss the occasional curious glances Bruce sent his way.

**** 

Although Tony had expected his visit with Bruce to be a one-time occurrence, quickly dismissed and never allowed to happen again because he was _amazing_ at lasting but negative impressions, he was pleased when the weeks passed and he developed a routine that proved him wrong. In between sleep, mandatory meal times, and the hours he spent alternately fighting with and cursing Charlotte, Tony would knock on Bruce's door and usually be admitted. After the first time, the excuse of borrowing a book was never repeated but assumed all the same, and Tony indulged that, working through volume after volume of science and magic and many things that he had never considered part of his reality when he was younger. While initially their time together was spent mostly in silence, reading and working respectively, separate except for the space they shared, it wasn't too long before Bruce's shoulders relaxed and Tony felt secure enough in his place on the floor to ask him mild questions about jargon and theories and the reason most of his brews spent time being orange or purple. Bruce responded eagerly enough past that first awkward stumble, and Tony decided it was at that moment that they became friends.

It was also at that moment that Tony realized, far too late, that Bruce did actually have secrets, one of which was that he didn't _want_ to be a hermit. It was a strange thing to acknowledge after a solid month of knowing the man, but all the same, when Tony ran out of steam for another chapter on alchemic reactions associated with fungi, he found himself just watching Bruce work. It was almost soothing, and fascinating in a way that theory alone wasn't. Bruce wasn’t graceful in the slightest—he fumbled more than once while working—but his reflexes were good and reliable, always preventing catastrophe just in the nick of time. He moved with confidence and certainty in everything, in fact, a confidence that he sorely lacked in many social interactions even though the effort was definitely there. It was…interesting to note, at least, because the idea of someone being more comfortable with dangerous powders and potions over people was baffling, especially when—otherwise—Bruce was downright friendly. Tony spent days thinking about it before he could place the reason Bruce's habits and Bruce's expressions bothered him so much.

It wasn't that Bruce didn't like people, although he probably found them a nuisance and a distraction at times, as scientists usually did. What he was was _scared_ of them, an initial reaction that was instinctive and one that Tony had unknowingly but determinedly broke through all the same. He and Bruce were friends because Tony had proven himself harmless enough and mostly trustworthy, but the idea that anyone could be scared of Tony as he was now, without power and wealth to inspire fear and with no real basis at all, was laughable. Tony concluded then that Bruce had secrets, and that this was _okay_. Tony had secrets, so of course Bruce was allowed to have them as well; Tony had even expected them in Bruce's case, thanks to Natasha and Clint's very deliberate hedging.

The rationale didn't stop him from being curious, but it did mean the issue didn't really come to the forefront of his mind until Charlotte docked in Nubencia, the largest city in the northern hemisphere. It was also, coincidentally, Tony's best chance for picking up the trail of Dr. Erskine because he knew Nubencia had been his home town once upon a time, and most places remembered brilliant men. When Natasha and Clint left to get supplies and sell no small amount of Bruce's concoctions, Tony tagged along with the very real excuse of needing parts and tools. Natasha saw through him even as the words were coming out of his mouth, but because Tony suspected she was secretly _nice_ at heart, she gave him some money and sent him on his way without any instructions beyond their takeoff time. Tony was grateful even though he came back late, arms laden with tools, parts, and very little information that wasn't forty years out of date. The only facts he took away from the stop, disappointingly, were that Natasha had trusted him not to run off with her money, and that Erskine had dated a local woman once before she had married someone else and moved to parts unknown. It wasn't much to go on, but it was enough that Tony spent the evening and the better part of the night comparing the information to what he already knew.

No matter how hard he looked, however, he could find no mention of a Sarah Winters in his notes. It was another connection shot, another dead end, and it was frustrating, enough that he skipped breakfast the next morning and went to visit Bruce instead.

It was only after pounding through his practiced series of insistent raps that he realized the door was unlocked, and that was unusual enough to be concerning. He didn't know what it meant, but he took it as permission and opened the doors without delay, heart beating just a little too fast for his health. By the time he'd reached the chain link fence, any attempt to be quiet was abandoned, and he burst into the storage room expecting…he didn't know what he was expecting.

It hadn't been Bruce working quietly at his table, calm and unbothered as Tony had never seen him.

"Ah, Tony. Hold this for me, please?"

Tony moved to his side and accepted the extended beaker without question. The concoction inside was lukewarm and clear, at least until Bruce added something with a quick flick of his wrist and it turned bright green and substantially warmer. Bruce took it back before the heat became unbearable but didn't explain, which was…odd. In fact, he wasn't talking at all.

"Your door was unlocked," Tony said into the silence. Bruce nodded but didn't look up from where he was carefully adjusting the flame under his mixture.

"Yes. I wasn't sure if I should expect you or not. It seemed…easier." He glanced up, and Tony felt guilty for no reason he could explain. "In any case, your book's right over there."

There was something odd about the comment, detached and a little chilly. It was the first time Bruce had ever reminded him of anyone from his old life, and Tony was surprised to find that the person in question was _Pepper_. More specifically, Pepper when she was annoyed with him.

"Are you…angry with me?" It sounded absurd when said out loud, but then Bruce huffed, and Bruce _never_ huffed.

"Of course not." Tony stared him down but Bruce didn't flinch, didn't fumble, just kept stirring with the thin glass stir stick. Tony was amazed it didn't crack in his grip. 

"You're definitely angry."

Bruce glared at him, expression sharp even through glass lenses, and Tony was too excited by the fact that he was seeing something other than nice, pleasant-if-awkward Bruce to take it as seriously as he should have. He wondered what was wrong with him, that he was excited to be having his first fight with his new friend.

"Tony, trust me when I say you'll _know_ when I'm angry."

"Yeah? Do you have a temper?"

"Of sorts," Bruce hedged, avoiding the question neatly. Tony was proud, at least until Bruce seemed to deflate, removing his spectacles to rub at his eyes. That was less exciting; Tony had been everyone's headache not too long ago, and he certainly didn't wish that on Bruce. "Look, it's fine. I just…would appreciate it if you'd tell me whether I should expect you or not. After seeing you every day for a month at approximately the same time, I was worried." Tony felt that sink in, the comment made all the more serious by the fact that Bruce looked at him, and his eyes were brown. Tony had never noticed the color. "Then Natasha said you were late, and well—"

"You asked Natasha?" Tony interrupted, because he couldn't let that go without comment. Bruce took it in stride, nodding as he replaced his spectacles and looked back to his work.

"Yes. She was surprised."

"I'll bet." And probably annoyed at being surprised, if he knew Natasha, and Tony was shocked to realize that he kind of did know Natasha. He was a little too stunned to offer an apology like the situation probably warranted, because if he knew _Natasha_ , he knew Bruce too. Or he knew him at least enough that worry was probably a warranted reaction, because that's what _good friends_ did. And Bruce, by all appearances, didn't have many friends.

Tony cleared his throat and tried to cover the realization that Bruce actually gave a damn with good cheer. "Well, as you can see, I'm completely whole and unharmed. And hey, next time you can just come with me, and then this won't even come up."

Bruce shook his head immediately, and Tony was disappointed. Considering how casually the offer had been made, Tony hadn't expected that either.

"I'd rather not." Tony didn't know what his expression looked like, but he imagined it was somewhere between 'exasperated' and 'amused,' because Bruce explained. “I tend to make people nervous.”

“That’s because you look like you want nothing more than to run away.” That at least seemed obvious to Tony, and he shrugged when Bruce looked his way again. "Makes them wonder if maybe they should be running too."

Bruce smiled faintly.

“That's really not it.” Tony opened his mouth to protest, and Bruce cut him off. “Let it go, okay Tony?” It was a plea, and Tony granted it in lieu of the apology he still couldn't bring himself to make.

“Suit yourself. I still think you’re wrong, though.” Tony was unable to resist the last remark on the subject, but since Bruce was back to looking more amused than annoyed, he figured it was forgiven. He'd remember, in any case, because Bruce… “It’s nice you were worried, anyway.”

Bruce smiled.

“I shouldn't have been. You’re too stubborn to die.”

Tony laughed to hide how close that was to the truth.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the fact that Tony's realization of deeper-than-expected friendship came as something of a surprise, the weeks immediately following it kept much of the same routine as his days before, with very little changed. Natasha was a bit tighter with her money and her rules for the first few days, but after they stopped at Arcova and Tony proved to be able to keep to a deadline after all, the stiffness in her shoulders eventually eased back to its former level. Clint went back to telling jokes and hiding nothing except when he did, his time when not piloting spent attempting to reinforce the hull against further invasions from unwelcome pirates. Tony went back to working on the Charlotte with enough enthusiasm that he almost forgot that it wasn't his job, not really, and he even forgave her for the (minor) injuries she dealt him. Nearly everything was as it had been before his slip-up, and it was close enough to before that he should have been relieved, even thankful. Tony never quite got around to that, however, because as it happened, only one thing had really changed. And that, surprisingly, was that Tony couldn't stop watching Bruce.

It wasn't that Bruce was behaving differently. Bruce was still the same man, quietly confident and pleasant when in his rooms, and tolerant of Tony's presence and commentary under most circumstances. He still ate and worked and slept and had bad moods like everyone else; it was just that Tony was noticing some things that he hadn't seen before. He was noticing how Bruce moved, how he talked, how he occasionally just looked at Tony with exasperated fondness and perfect understanding. Tony was noticing that Bruce smiled more with his lower lip than with his top, that his hair curled overwhelmingly to the left, that his beard (when it grew) looked impossibly soft and that his eyes were alarmingly kind behind those complicated frames. Tony was _noticing_ , and it was bringing back urges and peculiarities that he'd been able to get away with as Tony Stark but were not really an option for Edward Of-No-Last-Name. It was trouble on the horizon, and Tony knew, if he were a wise man, he would do his best to smother the feelings that were edging closer to the forefront of his mind with each passing day.

Tony had never claimed to be a wise man, however, and he'd lived a delightfully hedonistic lifestyle not so long ago. Tony was used to wanting and then _having_ , and there were few things in the world that could discourage him from his path on the matter once it was set. One was death. The second—and the more important of the two—was Bruce's negative reaction, and the possibility of that was enough to stop him in his tracks, at least for a while.

Except then there was Zimynon not three weeks later, and ignoring it, unfortunately, was no longer an option. 

Zimynon was smaller than Arcova by a half, but it was also widely considered the pirating capital of the world, and was thus more dangerous than anywhere they'd visited so far. Tony wasn't sure why they were there in the first place, but Natasha was annoyingly tight-lipped on the subject and Clint didn't smile, and so Tony got no answers. It was a mystery, one Tony wasn't entirely sure he liked, but unlike before, he didn't question the choice. Usually he assumed his comments would be met with quiet exasperation; this time he half-suspected any smart remarks would be met with violence, and so he let it go. Loudly.

Bruce had some idea why they were there, Tony knew it, but as much as Tony pestered, Bruce simply responded with a smile and a request that Tony collect some supplies for him, if he was going out. Being a popular location for pirates also had other traits besides danger, as it turned out, and that was that rarer items and ingredients were more commonplace, including—and this Tony found interesting—a very particular type of shaving soap that Bruce favored. Tony grumbled but agreed, and aside from the fact that Clint and Natasha went with him (he told himself he should be more thankful than annoyed for it, and he mostly managed that) the trip was calm and mostly boring.

Returning, however, was somehow _neither_. After leaving Natasha and Clint's company, he immediately went to the storage room and opened the doors, only to find Bruce standing by the sink that was normally enclosed by the privacy curtain. He was neatly trimming his beard with a pair of small scissors, his shirt and spectacles off and a towel around his neck, and Tony found himself abruptly alert and intrigued. Tony had thought Bruce thin, and that wasn't strictly true; he was lean, with prominent collar and shoulder bones, but he also had more muscle than Tony would have expected, strong lines under thick chest hair. Tony was more interested than he should have been, and he stared obviously while he stood frozen in the doorway, box extended with stiff arms.

Bruce either didn't notice or ignored it, but he took the box with a smile and said "thank you," so Tony assumed ignorance. Because he didn't ask Tony to leave nor did he display any discomfort, Tony closed the doors and sat down, ostensibly to read his book. Over the pages of _Alchemy on the Human Body_ , he watched Bruce instead. 

Tony had never considered shaving to be a particularly erotic activity, primarily because in his older life, it had been a perfunctory, efficient task performed by servants. It had been one of those luxuries he'd missed in his first few months of travel when the itch of facial hair had been unbearable, but after a while, he'd found other things more important and quickly lost track. Bruce was better about the habit because he had the money to be, and he shaved in the morning every four or five days, excepting when he ran out of soap. Tony had never seen the act just as he had rarely seen Bruce eat; their schedules almost never overlapped during those times, and Tony had thought nothing of it.

Watching now, he could see how much of an oversight that had been. Bruce had a routine, both with soap and straight razor. The thick lather was made with only a few drops of water, a dozen swirls of a brush counterclockwise across the white bar, and the smell of talc and cedar filled the air. Foam was applied almost carelessly to his face and neck, but his hands were as careful with the blade as they should have been. Tony imagined it was difficult, wielding sharp metal while the ship swayed but somehow managing so that skin was never cut. He wouldn't have been able to do it, that was certain; Bruce was more…careful, and each swipe of the sharp edge over white foam revealed only clean skin. The blade moved across his neck, slowly following the path of his pulse, and Tony's hands shook and his mouth watered. He couldn't help but watch openly after that, giving up any pretense, and when Bruce dabbed his face dry and turned, he started only slightly to find Tony watching him.

Tony tried to smile, but he knew the expression looked strained. He'd long since dropped his book, hoping the cover was enough to hide the bulge in his lap under loose cloth.

"Sorry," he offered, hoping it sounded sincere but hearing his voice come out thick, affected. "I got distracted." The natural question of 'by what' didn't follow, Bruce simply nodding and accepting the answer as he donned his shirt again. It seemed too easy, and since Tony hadn’t been exactly subtle, he wondered if Bruce was ignoring him deliberately.

It was an interesting idea, one that made Tony stand, angling himself neatly as he did so. When Bruce sat down at his table, Tony came up behind him, leaning in to view his work until Bruce's messy, dark curls— _bedhead_ , and wasn't that interesting—lightly touched his forehead and nose.

When Tony's cheek brushed against the newly shaven one beside it, Bruce chuckled and batted a hand at his face until Tony pulled away, faking offense.

“Don't you like my beard?”

“I’d like it more if you didn’t have it,” Bruce replied, which wasn't rejection, wasn't a request for space or a sign of disinterest. Tony grinned, and he hoped.

“Oh yeah? Well, let’s see if we can’t compromise.” He tapped Bruce lightly on the shoulder, a touch to cloth already warmed by skin. “Can I borrow your razor?”

Bruce nodded absently before turning back to his work, seemingly unmindful of the expense of soap and water. Tony wondered, not for the first time, how wealthy Bruce was; he doubted it compared to how wealthy he himself had been once, but it was an interesting thing, this reversal of roles. Still, Tony had had more than enough experience with greedy men and women for the both of them, he was sure of that, and so he made a note to never ask for the details, never give Bruce any reason to think that's what he was after. It was the least he could do.

The most he could do involved the razor and soap, and a style Tony had favored from his younger years. There was a risk in wearing it—he would look too much like Tony Stark to anyone who was looking for him—but he considered the possibility minor enough. Whether through fortune or not, it didn't become an issue regardless; Tony's hands were not steady or practiced with doing his own shaving, and the result was his remaining beard was slightly lopsided, and slightly more rugged than he'd planned. Tony supposed it was a good thing he'd watched Bruce so closely; if he hadn't, he probably would have ended up bloody, with no beard at all.

As it was, the experience all seemed worth it when Bruce turned around and stared. Tony walked a little straighter; he'd forgotten what it felt like to have people look at him like _that_ , like they'd never seen him before and didn't understand why.

“What do you think?" He asked, grinning and holding out both hands, barely a foot away from the table. He closed the remaining distance and leaned a hip against padding; Bruce didn't comment, which was as good of a sign as anything.

“You look good, Tony,” Bruce complimented softly, and when he reached out a hand, Tony didn't move, just waiting until fingers met flesh across his lower jaw. “You nicked yourself, right here. Ask me next time and I’ll help you.” Bruce’s thumb brushed over the small cut, a nick of flesh under his chin. Tony barely even felt it, the touch was so gentle, and he wanted to do something obvious, something that couldn't be misinterpreted for friendship, just to test the waters.

Tony pressed his cheek into the touch and breathed deeply. Bruce’s fingers stilled, and Tony waited. There could only be so many reactions to the gesture, affectionate and physical and apparent as it was, and Tony hoped for one in particular. Instead, Bruce…laughed.

“What are you, a baby calf?” Bruce asked, voice teasing. He patted him lightly on the cheek, smiling, and then turned back to his work. “Go back to your book.”

Tony felt the rejection in the pit of his stomach, but he tried to smile anyway. It had been a vain hope, he told himself, and he bent to pick up his book, ready to let it go without a scene. When he straightened and looked over at Bruce, he was prepared to apologize, to excuse himself to his own room and possibly stay there for the remainder of the night, nursing his bruised ego.

Instead he met Bruce's startled eyes, an intense gaze that snapped instantly back to his work, feigning focus where it should have been. Tony didn't laugh with relief although it was a near thing as he sat down, amused eyes fixing to the flush creeping along Bruce's ears and the back of his neck. Eventually he turned back to his book through sheer force of will, considering the sight of that flush answer enough. Still, he was surprised, and the little bit of delight he felt lingered for hours after.

Tony had spent so long secretly watching Bruce, and yet somehow he'd completely missed Bruce secretly watching _him_. 

****

Contrary to the expectations of anyone who might have known him before his time spent on the Charlotte, Tony decided that the best course of action was to proceed slowly. It wasn't his usual style, not in life and not in love, but Bruce was also a different man than what Tony would have considered his type not too long ago, and everything about his favorite shipmate cautioned against the quick moves Tony was used to. Bruce may not have been quite as skittish as he'd been in the beginning, but he also gave every sign of trying his hardest to fight the _attraction_ , to smother it in work and in friendship. Had Tony not caught him staring, he never would have noticed Bruce saw him as a man at all, but now that he had…it was difficult not to see aborted opportunities in past interactions. It was time lost that Tony dearly regretted, and so he was inclined to progress slowly for his own sake as well as Bruce's. To savor.

Besides, _Edward_ was a different man than Tony, one who didn't have to be the Stark heir. Tony Stark might have operated on a schedule with too many one-night stands to count, but Edward could seduce and linger if he was to romance at all, if he was to go the route of forbidden and frowned upon relations. Tony exploited the experience for all it was worth because—thanks in large part to Bruce's accidental stare—the route itself was no longer in question.

He started with touch. It was a simple thing really, something he would have considered natural in his interactions with others he held close, but Bruce had never seemed the sort for a friendly pat on the back before. Now Tony considered it the only logical place to start, a warm hand on a broad back as casual as could be…until it moved lower, then up again, softly rhythmic. Bruce shot him an odd look the first time it happened, but when Tony kept his expression guileless, the suspicion passed, never again to return in repeated attempts, or extended ones. An excellent start.

Touch was followed by sensations that were not as straightforward. After the first week had passed, Tony gave up the pretense of reading and took on a role not unlike an assistant, despite the burn to his pride that such a title caused. While Bruce remained focused on important work, Tony shadowed him, handing him things he needed and offering advice or conversation. Bruce always took it in the spirit it was given, despite Tony's lack of expertise—an attitude which Tony _loved_ —and he never flinched when Tony stood too close. Sometimes he twitched when Tony breathed words into his ear, but other than a tell in the form of his grip tightening on whatever he held at the time, Bruce almost never wavered in his focus. Tony admired his control and concentration, even as it frustrated him.

It was difficult to seduce someone who resisted the very idea of seduction, and after two weeks of exhausting attempts, Tony was about to consider the entire idea a waste. Frustration meant that he had never spent so much time being productive during his repairs, and it also meant that he spent more time in bed than he should have, tortured by thoughts of Bruce's wide mouth and smooth hands. Frustration altered his schedule, disrupted his sleep, made his heart pound off-beat (he ignored the last of these with single-minded determination). It made his control falter, and it _meant_ that when Bruce helped him with his shaving as he'd promised, Tony went hard at the first touch of hands on his jaw. He did nothing to hide it.

Bruce, when he noticed, didn't jump in surprise so much as _shudder_ against Tony's back before he regained control. Tony's bad mood faltered, and he maintained good cheer when Bruce finished his task and then kicked him out. Bruce had never kicked him out, not even when Tony had been at his most obnoxious, and Tony didn't think he imagined the reason.

It was working. Bruce resisted still, and for reasons Tony couldn't fathom except maybe repression or fear of repercussions, but reasons that were definitely not disinterest. It was _working_ , and Tony felt triumph in preparation for the weeks ahead.

It was Natasha who reminded him that even though Edward had so much time, he was not Edward. In her defense, she couldn't have known, either his current goal or his identity. But in his defense, he hadn't so much as forgotten his purpose on the Charlotte as pushed it from his mind, wanting freedom and something _good_ , things removed from a ticking clock. When they docked at Ituanar and Tony made only a half-hearted attempt at finding Erskine before beginning his work on the buggy control panel of the Charlotte, Natasha watched him for a moment with curious eyes while Clint chattered. After hours passed and Natasha left and returned, Clint disappeared without a word, giving them privacy. Tony didn't think the reason was good.

"It's been two months," she began, "four if we count the first few. Have you found your man?"

Her words were clipped but not cold, businesslike and straightforward. Tony shook his head.

"No."

"Are you still looking?" Tony didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to look down at his hands, at his dirty skin. Of course he was looking, he wanted to say. It wasn't a frivolous search; it was _important_. Life or death.

Natasha didn't wait for him to answer, but she bent down to his level and leaned close, close enough that she could surely smell the oil on his clothes.

"Or should I ask, is someone looking for you?"

Tony's head snapped up, and Natasha stood from her crouch before he could so much as breathe on her winding curls. She waited, and Tony prepared to lie. Prepared…except then his heart stuttered, and he _remembered_.

"Maybe."

She nodded and removed something from her coat pocket, a flash of color not too different from that of their barley mash. It was a sheet of paper, and she handed it to him, waiting for him to unfold it. Even with the creases, the message was clear, detailed in expensive ink.

"I didn't ask their names or volunteer yours," she explained, voice quiet. "They didn't say who they were looking for, but the description matched closely enough. More so now that you've taken to wearing that beard." Tony didn't reply, and she continued in the same soft voice, as if the walls could hear. "They offered a substantial reward for information. I'd advise staying on-board from now on. Clint or I can ask your questions."

Tony gaped, and the paper crinkled in his hands.

"You'd help me?" It seemed impossible.

"Clint likes you, and you still have repairs to do," she replied, but when Tony studied her with narrowed eyes, she offered him a smile. "Besides, although it might surprise you, we know a thing or two about being hunted. All of us."

Tony let the implications sink in, refraining from reaction. There was no way he could describe what he was feeling without playing the fool—how did you say you felt honored when your shipmates didn't stab you in the back? He couldn't find the words, but he did pocket the paper and the message it contained.

"I'll make you a list of questions." After a moment of pause, he continued, voice quiet. "Thank you." For everything, he didn't need to add. Natasha left him to his work; unknowingly, she left him torn. His deadline…an accurate description in everything, but he'd long since stopped counting down. He'd dismissed it, assuming he'd find Erskine in short order and that nothing would change. He'd assumed that he wouldn't have to worry about being found, that one day sometime soon, he'd walk down the streets of his home town in plain view, wearing his real name.

As much as he wanted to ignore it, his time was running out. He couldn't afford _slow_ , not now; truth be told, he couldn't afford the casual touch of sex and friends, not knowing the consequences as he did, the possible ends. The reality made his heart heavy, a sensation difficult to work past. Although he tried to tinker with the machine under his hands, he couldn't focus and, knowing that Clint and Natasha were in no hurry to leave the dock, he didn't try.

Instead, he went to visit Bruce, not hesitating before opening the doors that were no longer locked. The space was as familiar if not more so than his own room on the ship, and he reflected on that while Bruce smiled up at him, pleasant surprise in his features. And…Tony wanted.

"Hello, Tony. I thought you were working all day?"

"I was planning on it. This couldn't really wait, though." Bruce obligingly set his work aside, humoring Tony as he always did. Then Bruce removed his spectacles and all Tony could really think was how he shouldn't have done that, because it made the explanation that he _should_ have been offering first stick in his throat. It made him selfish, and it made him give into the impulse to crowd into Bruce's space, expression serious and focused and the implications clear.

Bruce wasn’t humoring him anymore, and he didn't try to play oblivious. The time for seduction was passed, and they both knew it.

“Tony…” Bruce trailed off, uncertainty clouding his face as he bit his lower lip. Tony watched the action raptly. _Let me do that_ , he thought. “Tony, we shouldn’t.”

Tony nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he agreed, because it was a bad idea. Tony _knew_ bad ideas. He was practically the traveling salesman of bad ideas, always providing them when people didn’t need any. 

But Bruce was looking at him with something dangerously close to longing, and as for Tony…Tony wanted, even though it was unwise. Maybe Bruce had his secrets and maybe Tony did too and maybe the entire thing would go up in flames, but that was no reason they couldn’t be exactly what they wanted to be, if only for a little while. A very little while.

“You’re right. It’s a terrible idea,” Tony agreed, and then he leaned forward those last few inches and kissed him anyway, cupping rough-stubbled cheeks with his hands and savoring soft, dry lips. Bruce welcomed him with the enthusiasm of a starving man, matching touch for touch at last.

Neither of them bothered to protest again.

**** 

The hardest thing to adjust to after Tony started sleeping with Bruce was, surprisingly enough, waking up with sunlight on his face. It wasn't something he had ever considered a luxury in his old life, but after months of living in a ship and even longer living in hiding, stretching out across rough sheets in the leisurely morning hours was something that Tony realized he had dearly missed. The warmth on his skin was distinct, a reminder of easier times, and between that and the bristle of beard on his cheeks, Tony could almost convince himself that he was back home, without a care in the world.

Stretching naked, of course, made it all the better even if it shattered the fantasy, and after their first night together—the first night Tony had ever bothered to _stay_ with someone, really—he hadn't bothered to attempt to hide it. Bruce, when he noticed, chuckled until Tony could distract him, pulling him from his work and back into bed. Bruce usually offered a token protest, but after weeks of the same routine and weeks of Bruce gradually wearing fewer and fewer clothes in wake of inevitability, Tony thought it was more motivated by appearance than any desire to get work done. If they managed to separate completely and go their own ways by midday, it was a miracle, and Tony knew that if he'd been productive before, he was the exact opposite now. Thanks to Natasha's volunteered help and the continuing repairs on Charlotte, Tony rarely even had to leave the ship. Some days, he saw the appeal.

That day in particular, Tony actually woke up before Bruce, waking with the sun now that they were headed south. He didn't mind, despite the early hour; it was difficult to mind with Bruce's head on his shoulder and most of his weight flopped over Tony while he slept, content and trusting…and snoring, but Tony forgave him for that. He smelled like wonderful soap and chemicals, and he occasionally nuzzled into Tony's collar bone, his dark hair tickling Tony's nose until he nearly sneezed and his stubble scraping against his skin, more of an irritation than it was when Bruce's head was between his thighs. It was too hot, and crowded, and Tony's arm was falling asleep. As usual, he told himself that he should really sleep in his own bed, and like every time he woke, he told himself that Bruce's bed was just more comfortable, ignoring that their beds were almost identical, and that the only difference was _Bruce_.

It was easily the happiest Tony had been in months, and he cherished every minute, knowing it couldn't last much longer.

**** 

Tony's blissful ignorance lasted for nearly two months, and ended—not by coincidence—when he looked at Charlotte's engine and realized there was no work remaining. It was a curious thing, coming to the abrupt realization that he had no place there, that maybe he never really had, and it was stranger still that he had the realization while under the watchful eyes of Clint, who was perched on the stairway railing.

"You've done a really nice job," Clint said, into the silence. "I hardly recognize it without the banging and the whines. So…good job."

Tony nodded at the thanks, a display of simple gratitude that hid the fact he was having difficulty forming words.

"Yeah, it's…I could…" his voice was raspy even as he trailed off, and Clint looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

"Maybe. I'm sure you could." He brought a hand up to brush through his short hair, then he jumped down neatly the five or so feet, landing almost without sound next to Tony. Tony didn't jump; he'd been here too long to jump. "In any case, talk to Nat. She'll help."

Tony refrained from mentioning that she had already helped too much, that all of them had. He was never a sentimental sort of man, and there would be time for things like that when he said goodbye, one way or another; he had his pride, after all. All the same, he didn't protest when Clint pointed him to the control room where Natasha was surely lurking, and he couldn't help but feel a little like a prisoner on his last walk as he moved down the hallway.

The feeling changed into something else entirely when the Charlotte shook, tilted, and Tony hit the floor with a thud. He heard Clint pick up running from behind him, passing his prone form easily, and Tony followed once he pulled himself to his feet, moving as quickly as he could to the room at the end of the hall. The expression on Clint and Natasha's faces when he got there was grim, and that was worse than the smoke he could see out the front window, pouring from the side of the ship.

"How badly are we hit?" Clint asked as he took the pilot seat back, pulling back hard on the controls. The ship jerked up into the clouds, the best cover they had, and the scope was activated, the better to see who was firing at them. Natasha peered through the glass eye, and snarled.

"Fucking pirates," she said, voice calm despite her words, and then the eye was spun. "Severe damage—one of the propellers is bent, and that shot took out one fin. I'm surprised we're keeping in the air."

Clint hummed, and Tony felt the shockwave of a fired round hit open air, close to their position. The sound was…familiar, and as Clint jerked to the left, away from the blast, Tony bent towards the open eye.

On the surface, it looked like just another pirating ship, although different than the one they'd encountered previously. The other ship had wanted them alive so that they could better have their valuables harvested; this one had no such concerns, and that was odd for a pirating ship. Valuables were difficult to collect when the ship that housed them plummeted, but then, Tony supposed it didn't matter to false pirates.

The ship had Stark weapons at its bow, and Tony didn't have to see anyone inside to know that Obie had probably sent them, or at least supplied them. Clearly, "find Tony" wasn't the same as "find Tony alive." Just as clearly, Obie had lost patience, and was now attacking random ships, hoping one of them would hold Tony's body. 

Tony didn't hesitate.

"Bank hard right, and get behind them," he ordered, ignoring the fact that Clint and Natasha had no reason to listen to him at all. "Stark weapons are always weak on the right; the guns don't turn clockwise very well."

Clint jerked them to the right immediately after he'd finished the words, neither of them questioning his knowledge. Tony would have been impressed with that, would have felt flattered, except then there was a much closer explosion, and the entire ship dipped to the side. There was a sound like a roar, something hitting the metal wall, and Tony remembered.

The storage room's release hatch. Drop in case of emergency, or damage. The storage room, where Bruce lived. _Bruce_.

Tony took off down the hallway even while Clint shouted after him, and despite the fact that the ship jerked and swayed and explosions echoed outside the walls, he kept his footing. He nearly slipped as he came around the engine, but he reached the doors quickly, yanking them open hard enough to nearly catch his thumb in the jam. By the time he reached the chain link fence, he could see smoke outside the storage room windows, eclipsing the sunlight, and he struggled through the fence, closed it behind him on instinct as he ran into the open space.

Bruce was nowhere to be found, and Tony would have thought he had wisely left to seek shelter, except then a table—Bruce's table, the one he performed all his experiments on—flew across the room and over his head to smash against the wall, accompanied by another piece of furniture, Bruce's bed. Tony turned, startled, and then there was a _roar_ , large and angry and deafening, and he shrank against the wall in terror.

Tony saw _it_ , giant and green and like nothing he'd ever seen before, a vision of nightmares. And it saw him, and responded by batting the sink to the side like it was nothing, causing water to spurt across the floor and dampen shattered glass.

Tony watched as the brute growled, a terrifyingly quiet sound. He stood frozen as it shifted, huge hands nearly dragging the floor like a primitive beast, a disadvantage to intelligent beings that in no way made it any less frightening. It sniffed the air with a face not unlike that of a man, and Tony's eyes darted around, looking for Bruce, thinking they had to run, had to move quickly. Tony didn't know if he could, didn't know if he could move fast enough to ever escape the reach of the giant monster before him. Still, he knew he had to try; Bruce was in _danger_ , surely injured or trapped by the creature, and Tony found the will to edge along the wall, using shaking hands to guide himself.

The creature watched him with eyes a poisonous green, and Tony swallowed. Some animals responded well to bravery, he knew, but some definitely did not. This one…he wasn't sure, but neither was he looking to be the alpha male. Already the Charlotte shook beneath his feet, trembled as it tried to escape pursuit; a conflict with this animal who shared Bruce's space, whether or not he survived, would cause the emergency drop to initiate, letting all of them fall into the abyss. Tony couldn't afford that.

The creature sniffed again, shifted again, and Tony edged further along the wall, knowing he was seen but not understanding why he wasn't attacked, wasn't prey. He saw the remains of Bruce's dresser—a thousand splinters now only—and the scraps of fabric it had contained out of the corner of his eye. No Bruce, not in the boxes or the piles or the remains of the destroyed lab. No Bruce at all...or, at least, none that Tony could see with his mind filled with terror.

It took a second before Tony saw the smashed spectacles amid the wreckage, longer still for him to notice that the creature wore scraps of clothes that would have been familiar if they were whole. His mind caught up, and the creature _watched him_.

It would have been so much easier, he decided, if the eyes had remained brown. As it was, he swallowed and tried to speak. He had to try twice before any words came.

"Hey…big feller?" He swallowed again when the words came out sounding high-pitched, and the creature flinched back. "Um…Bruce?"

A snarl was his response, but Tony didn't know if that was confirmation or disgust or any number of things. Tony was braced to become a smear on the wall or splinters just like all the rest, but the monster's features—familiar ones, Tony realized, just stretched, just expanded like the rest of Bruce on a nine-foot tall frame—contorted, as if in thought. Tony waited, fear and curiosity warring for a place on his face, but then the creature paused. Tony felt it; the ship began to steady, and outside the windows, the smoke began to clear. They were out of danger, at least for now…or at least the ship was.

But then, without warning, the creature seemed to shrink. No, it _did_ shrink, losing the green hue and the bulk of muscles, sounds like snapping and crunching accompanying the transition. When it was finished, the monster was gone, and there stood Bruce, mostly naked and blinking at him with bleary eyes. Tony tried a smile, wobbly as it was…and then Bruce crumbled to the floor, and Tony forgot he was supposed to be scared out of his mind.

"Bruce?" There was no response, not even when Tony shook him, a tentative grip on one shoulder that belayed the frantic motion. But he breathed and had no visible wounds that Tony could see, and that was enough to signify him as 'alive,' and that was all Tony wanted. Well, that and to run; when Tony had expected secrets, he'd expected nothing like _this_.

He wondered if the urge made him a coward, or if it made him practical. He wondered if it made him stupid that he stayed instead, slowly sinking into a sitting position on the floor, amid destroyed glass and fabric. He wondered, and then he stopped wondering as his heartbeat slowed, as he shifted Bruce's head gently to his lap. Asleep—not unconscious, Tony hoped—Bruce still looked the same as he always did, and he breathed softly against Tony's hand when Tony brushed the hair off his forehead. Bruce trusted him so much, to let Tony see him like this. A wise man would have probably tried to kill him as he slept after seeing the monster revealed…but again, Tony was no wise man. Even before knowing what lurked in the storage room besides Bruce, Tony had still known he was risking his life, risking a plummet to the ground should the storage room floor open. Tony had known, and even though he valued his life quite highly, he'd still come.

Now, he stayed. For Bruce, and for whatever he kept locked inside, Tony stayed.

It was hours before Bruce began to stir, and Tony snapped awake from the light doze he'd fallen into, snapped open his eyes to meet brown ones that were no doubt too close to make out his face. Tony smiled anyway.

"Hey there. Finally awake?"

Bruce nodded slowly and turned his head, the new angle allowing his breath to settle against Tony's thigh. He was taking in his surroundings, slowly and groggily, almost as though he hadn't been there before. Tony supposed that was probably true enough, and he shrugged, hoping the motion would offset the stiffness of his back.

"Yeah, sorry. I don't think there's much salvageable; it was mostly destroyed when I got here. None of the chemicals ate through the floor, at least."

Bruce swallowed loudly, and his eyes closed. Tony felt him tense, felt the bunch of shoulder muscles against his ankles, but Bruce didn't pull away. Tony couldn't decide if it was a sapping of physical strength or willpower that made him stay; Tony knew he hadn't imagined seeing tears crowd Bruce's eyes before he hid them, trapped them in, and he wondered how often this had happened, how often people had run.

"You saw?" His voice was quiet, choked, and Tony smiled a little, for himself. He resumed petting Bruce's hair; underneath it, his skin was cold, chilled. The floor probably didn't help.

"That you turn into a giant, green…ape-thing?" Bruce nodded quickly, and Tony steadied his head while he paused, while he thought of the words to say. "Yeah, that's hard to miss," Tony concluded mildly, and Bruce didn't shift so much as jerk, clearly startled. When Tony looked back down at him, Bruce was _gaping_ at him.

"You don't…care?" Bruce sounded like he didn't dare to hope, and Tony felt confident he was making the right choice.

“Well, of course I _care_ ,” Tony corrected reasonably. “He’s a big guy, and he could probably do some damage to an airship if he had a mind to it. I’d be stupid not to care.” He felt Bruce stiffening again, and he tightened his grip. “But I’m not worried, if that’s what you mean. Or scared.” He looked at Bruce fondly, too fondly for friends or even for friends who played at lovers, and he spoke softly. “Did you think I would be? Did you think I wouldn’t want to know you exactly as you are?” Bruce swallowed, and looked at Tony. Looked and looked, and Tony felt naked, more so than he'd ever been.

He forced his voice to lighten, and dropped his gaze, briefly, to the furry surface of Bruce's chest. It didn't help.

"Besides, we all have our flaws," Tony finished with a grin. "Mine are starting to look pretty minor, too, so I should thank you for that…"

Bruce laughed, soft and surprised and delighted. There were still tears bunched at the corners of his eyes, and Tony brushed them away with his thumb. When he made to pull away, back to a safe distance for at least one of them, Bruce's hand caught his.

"I don't always turn into the—well, what you saw," he offered quietly, more to Tony's fingers than his face. "Only when I'm angry, or scared."

Ah-ha, Tony didn't say. Bruce _had_ warned he had a temper; Tony supposed it was good that there was a physical sign. When he turned green, run away. "He have a name? The other-guy?"

"The other-guy? No." He paused, swallowing again—Tony felt it under his palm. "Thank you. For seeing us as separate."

"Any time." Tony leaned forward and left a soft kiss on Bruce's lips. Bruce tried valiantly to return it, but when he tried to shift up to follow, he groaned. Tony didn't blame him at all. "Too sore? Sleepy?" he asked, voice sympathetic, and Bruce nodded, eyes already closing.

"Yeah." His grip tightened on Tony's hand, as though Tony was in any position to attempt to leave. "But stay anyway?"

"Because you asked so nicely, any time," Tony said, meaning it as more than the joke his tone implied, and Bruce smiled as he drifted off to sleep. Tony waited and tried to get comfortable, finally settling for sinking to his back with Bruce's head on his stomach. Even on the floor, any bed with Bruce in it was still the most comfortable, he noted, and he tried not to think on it any more than he had to, either the reality or the implications. He was too attached, he knew it, and the fact scared him more than Bruce's other guy ever could.

When he went to see Natasha the next morning and found that his debt had been paid in full, weeks ago, by the good doctor, Tony wondered if maybe he wasn't the only one who was in too deep.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony had never been in love nor wanted to be, but try as he might, he had a hard time classifying the feelings in his chest as anything else. He wasn't a sentimental man or a romantic, not a dreamer or a believer in any shape of the words, but despite all this, he had recognized the signs of love in others, recognized hope and bliss and doe-eyed infatuation. And frustratingly enough, what he had currently met all the symptoms. 

Naturally, he tried to rationalize them away into a realm that was neither so embarrassing nor dangerous. Lightness of breath, flush to the cheeks? Easily dismissed as problems related to his heart in a purely practical sense, even if he'd never had them before. Weak knees when he tried to stand, when Bruce idly straightened the buttons on his shirt or reached up to his face, as if to find spectacles that were no longer present? Clearly they were passing through a storm, and just as clearly Tony's sky-legs weren't as sturdy as he thought. Being tongue-tied? It was clearly just the dry air. The reasons weren't particularly convincing in themselves, but as the days passed and Bruce's area was slowly recovering, important items first, Tony managed to conclude that what he felt was probably indigestion, or some side effect of lusting too long.

The third or fourth day after what Tony called "the hulking brute incident" (much to Bruce's displeasure), Tony was no longer able to convince himself. The evidence was…overwhelming, obvious, and curled up against his chest despite the fact that there was work to be done and that the sunlight was streaming in.

They'd spent the morning in bed before, of course, but that had been simply that: spending the morning in bed. Lust. Flirtation. Sex. This…this was nothing short of _cuddling_. And in light of the fact that Bruce still had no bed to speak of, they were cuddling in the remains of it, a wobbly frame housing blankets and little else. It was still, appallingly, Tony's favorite place to sleep.

"Tony, you're crushing my spine." Bruce elbowed him in the side gently, and Tony reluctantly shifted to the side a fraction, less on Bruce's back and more on the floor. He grumbled mightily; it was far less comfortable than Bruce had been, but when Bruce rolled over, Tony was presented with his thickly furred chest and strong collar bones, and he couldn't say he minded very much.

It was nauseating. Tony told himself he really had to get a handle on it, because only bad things could result from _love_. Bruce saw his expression through squinted eyes, saw the hint of lust quickly becoming annoyance, and he laughed.

"What are you thinking about?" it was asked casually, not the star-struck murmuring of a lover but the frank interest of a scientist. Tony, who had never liked pillow talk, approved heartily. (Dammit.)

"Debt," he responded, because it was partially the truth. In between musings on the way his life was blissfully happy these days with his heart feeling full and light at the same time, it did cause him some concern. He never liked owing anyone anything, and even knowing that Bruce would never demand repayment, the feeling didn't fade.

Bruce shrugged, looking unbothered and so content that Tony wondered where his self-depreciating alchemist had gone.

“If it really bothers you, you can pay me back later. It’s not a problem.” He brushed a hand through Tony's hair, over the once-again stubbled surface of his jaw, and Tony responded by curling his fingers in the chest hair under his palm. “It's only money. Besides, it’s the least I could do for my friend.”

There was a slight stutter on the word “friend,” and that, combined with the almost worshipful way Bruce treated him in their not-bed these days, made Tony swallow hard. Tony might have been a genius, but he didn’t have to be one to read those signs, and Bruce…well, Bruce had never said it. Maybe Tony had doubted, in the back of his mind, that his interpretation was accurate. Even if Tony might have never admitted _it_ , Bruce nearly did in everything, with actions and not words.

Bruce was in love with him. It was an enormous responsibility.

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” Tony told himself it wasn’t the end of the world. He told himself it was nothing to be concerned about. Maybe he’d been hanging out with Bruce so much that honesty rubbed off on him, however, because no matter how he tried, the effort of self-deception did no good. 

It _was_ something to be concerned about, and for any number of reasons. Because Bruce was a good man. Because they still hadn’t found Erskine. Because once upon a time Tony had had Pepper and a future and everything at his feet and Bruce didn’t even know. It mattered because even though Tony pretended otherwise, the thought of Bruce in danger just days ago had sent him into a panic and he’d reacted without care for his own life, something he dearly treasured. It mattered, and it was a problem. Logically, he knew he should do something about that.

Then Bruce smiled at him again and Tony’s heart gave an erratic _thump_ , and what had been a problem was suddenly pushed to the back of his mind amid forgotten names and failed experiments. Love was funny that way.

Instead of trying to curb the feelings, Tony spent the rest of the day alternating between saying “thank you” and kissing Bruce until he was breathless.

****

The search for Dr. Erskine ended unexpectedly during their second trip to Thilum, and Tony—for all that he had searched for nine months on the Charlotte—had not anticipated the quest ending so suddenly. In his mind, he had foreseen a long trail, a journey made up of hints and near-glances and failure. For the entire search thus far, that had been exactly the reality of it, and Tony had expected the pattern to continue. He had never believed in luck, or coincidence, or leaps of faith.

He was naturally surprised when it was not his research that found the man, but his one shot in the dark. And it was just his luck that—had Bruce and he not emerged to the center of the ship to see the commotion—his one lead might have very well met a quick end. The pirate captain hadn't been shot, but he had been trussed up like a tight boot, and he struggled mightily with a smile on his face. When Natasha at last subdued him with a solid kick to his stomach, the blond giant fell to his knees on the metal floor, laughing and groaning in the same sound. Tony wasn't sure whether to feel more sympathy for him, or for his bewildered shipmates.

"An excellent bout, my lady!" the giant boomed from his prone position, beaten but not defeated or humbled by any means. It was an admirable trait under most circumstances, but at present, it was more of a confusion than anything else.

Natasha scowled and leveled her gun at him from a safe distance, and Tony looked away, reflexively. He was not positive the pirate would survive whatever insult he had unknowingly dealt the Red Captain, but when there was no explosive shot fired, Tony chanced a glance back.

"I'm not your lady," she said darkly, but when the pirate made no move to free himself and didn't attempt to correct her, she relaxed. Very slightly.

The pirate shrugged, good humor in the motion despite the bleeding of his nose and lip, and the surely uncomfortable tightness of his ropes.

"Sadly true, but that does not stop the compliment."

Natasha just shook her head, once again looking more bemused than angry. Her pistol never wavered all the same.

"Who on Earth are you?"

The question, clearly not meant to receive an answer, was answered anyway, and the giant bowed very slightly, his mane of hair bobbing with the motion.

"I am called Thor. A pleasure, although I would wish that the circumstances of our meeting were different." There was slight flirtation in the tone and the words, and Clint kicked him in the back.

"Like when you were robbing us again?" Clint snorted, and to Tony and Bruce, he explained helpfully, "He broke in."

"Unarmed," Natasha added, and she sounded like she was impressed despite herself. Tony was too, although he preferred to bank on the side of intelligence over blind bravery in most cases.

The pirate—Thor—was clearly very brave, whatever his many faults.

Thor smiled at Tony as if he knew exactly what he was thinking, and then he climbed carefully to his feet. Neither Natasha nor Clint made a move to stop him; they both looked like they were waiting for an excuse to shoot first.

"I bring news for your third companion." The statement was not as loud as the others had been and it was delivered casually, a careless remark. All the same, it rocked Tony to his bones. "Bucky knows of Dr. Erskine. He will take you to him, my friend, if you meet him in Crynova. He has…family business there."

Bruce started, and the hand that had been resting on Tony's upper arm spasmed quickly before releasing him, almost reluctantly. 

"Erskine? As in, Abraham Erskine?" Bruce shook his head, looking stunned. "I never thought…" He trailed off, and Tony thought, _of course_. Of course Bruce would know who Erskine was. “You're looking for him, Tony? Why?”

Natasha's focus shifted so quickly that Tony was amazed it didn't slice the air.

“Tony?” Her tone was suspicious, distrustful, betrayed, and Tony had the briefest thought that maybe her name was Natasha after all. “I thought your name was Edward.”

Bruce looked guilty for half a second, the span of time in which he was clearly trying to think of an explanation, any explanation. Tony appreciated the effort, but truthfully, he knew that enough was enough. Reality had been a long time coming anyway.

Tony sighed, and hoped the truth wouldn't hit too hard.

"It's Anthony, actually. Anthony Edward Stark."

****

Natasha was the first to react, the loudest, and the least intelligible. Tony had heard her curse only in passing before, but to see her eyes widen and her lips purse and the cursing fly, she was clearly well practiced at it. Tony didn't blame her in the slightest, because the answer—just a few short words—clearly said enough.

Thor laughed from where he stood at her reaction, and he was kicked again for his trouble, this time significantly harder. Clint only sighed, and then smiled, the expression noticeably paining him.

"Well," he offered with forced cheer. "That at least explains the familiarity with the missiles."

Tony waited for a reaction from Bruce, something like anger or betrayal. What he received was more confusion, tinged with concern. Tony…hadn't expected that.

"But…why are you looking for Dr. Erskine?" It was a tentative question, like Bruce was back to believing Tony was _dangerous_. Tony…didn't blame him either, because in light of the situation—of secrets already learned and secrets kept despite that—it was only fair. It still hurt, somewhat, but Tony told himself it didn't matter, not really.

"That's a long story." All eyes fell to him, some more forgiving than others, and Tony swallowed, and began.

The easiest place to start was with the doctors, a constant presence since he'd been fifteen and had tired easily, more easily than he should have. It had required less than a year for them to conclude it was a weakness of the heart, but Tony had taken little heed of the subject, counting on the strength of youth and wealth to carry him through. He knew he had options, but when his parents had died—five years ago now—his options had shrank, and with them his time on this Earth. Three years they'd given him, in a pronouncement made almost two years ago, and Tony had finally started to take it seriously, at least enough that he could consider a transplant. Three months into his pronouncement of certain death, it became clear that Tony would never find an available organ, and it was heavily implied that were he to try, those few people he cherished would be forfeit. Tony, not being one to give up even in the face of threats, had begun searching for other options, both through messengers and then by himself when his messengers were compromised.

Dr. Erskine was that other option, him and his super serum…provided Tony found him, that was, and it looked as though he had. Tony explained all of this in a voice as bland as he could make it, hoping that the details of his life, reduced to bare facts, would satisfy everyone. Thor watched them all, but since Tony barely knew the man, he couldn't interpret such inaction, not as anything either hostile or friendly. Natasha and Clint listened intently and asked questions where necessary, gentle prods for information that offended not at all. They gave him their attention and their trust because he asked for it and for no other reason; it was an honor, one he hadn't expected, but it paled in comparison to what he _wanted_. 

Bruce listened as well, but he said not a word. Tony sometimes glanced to him, trying to interpret the stiffness in his shoulders and the pursing of his lips, but Bruce never met his gaze, not until he finished speaking and silence reigned.

The focus of brown eyes was far worse than the feigned ignorance, in Tony's mind; at least when they were fixed on the floor, he hadn't had to confront the sadness they contained.

"Everyone has heard of Erskine's formula, Tony," he began slowly, an apparent confirmation that was quickly erased when Bruce ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "But—everyone knows it's a _myth_. No one's ever been able to re-create it, no one's ever seen proof of it. Even I attempted it once, and…the results were disastrous. As you saw."

Tony didn't have to see Natasha to know that the snap of her eyes was sharp, matching her voice. "As he _saw_?" Tony nodded, and there was a pair of sighs, one male, one female. 

"This is a problem," Clint added, Natasha clearly agreeing. Bruce corrected them instantly.

"It's not a problem." He turned to Tony, his eyes beseeching. The subject, however, was not what Tony expected. "You have to go back, Tony. You have to…to get a transplant, before it's too late."

The answer, given like it was so simple and easy, like Tony could ever do that, frustrated him beyond measure.

"Don't you think I want to?" He asked, angry with a thousand things he'd tried to ignore for _months_. "Don't you think I wish I could go back? Back when everything was normal, the way it should be?" Before Obie betrayed him, before Pepper told him goodbye and wished him happiness in his final hours, before Rhodey helped him sneak out of the city. Before, before, before…it made Tony sick with it. "God, I want that more than anything." The words came out raspy, powered by raw feeling.

Bruce flinched.

"Right. Well." He cleared his throat, and he fidgeted. Bruce hadn't fidgeted for months. "That's…fine. Of course it is."

Bruce wasn't meeting his eyes again. Tony understood instantly what he thought he'd heard, and he winced.

"I didn't mean it like that," he insisted, but the protest was weak. Tony knew what he'd meant—easier times, that's what he'd wished for, that was all—but he supposed there was no way to have that without losing the rest. He wanted to explain…but then Bruce smiled at him, gamely, like they were only friends, and the moment was lost. Tony hated himself for not using it when he could have, more so for the way Bruce edged away to a safe distance.

When the route for Crynova was set, a surprisingly somber and disinterested Thor was released, and Bruce disappeared entirely back to the remaining ruin of his room, back to the comfort behind locked doors, Tony didn't blame him at all. Natasha watched the entire thing, and she understood, all of it. Tony expected reproach to their loss of subtlety, the reveal of his and Bruce's relationship, reviled as such things often were. It was not the reaction he received. 

"Didn't I tell you not to bother the good doctor?" she asked quietly, voice disappointed but not accusing. She didn't sound surprised, and in fact she had probably known for weeks. What's more, she'd hoped for them, Tony supposed; he would have to thank her, before he left for good.

"Yeah. Sorry."

She nodded like the apology made a difference to her, and she didn't bring it up again, not even when Tony stayed in the control station long past dark.

When he finally did leave for his room for the first time in months, he found it cold, empty, and nearly barren. It was fitting.

****

It took nearly two weeks to reach the banks of Crynova, but the time may as well have been a lifetime for all the tension in the ship. Tony, much like he had some number of months ago, kept mainly to himself. Unlike before, where this seclusion had been mostly the result of sulking and reluctance, now it was simply because he was unwelcome. When he sat down for meals on the rare occasion he emerged, Natasha left the table and Clint stayed silent, both things alarming in their own way. Bruce was once again a ghost, and Tony felt his absence keenly, like the world viewed through a dirty window. Tony missed sunlight on his face and he missed rusty laugher, and he missed many things, drawing his focus from where it should have been: on his future. He tried to keep it there, and he ignored how _wrong_ the attempt felt. 

When they docked, the weight of the ship shifted, and Clint and Natasha—who had each been angry at him, in their own way—changed tune, and offered to accompany him. Tony wasn't sure if it was an offer for aid so much as an attempt to see him to his destination, to see him gone, but he appreciated it all the same. Since he would have been a fool not to do so, he accepted, seemingly with enthusiasm.

The next morning, he snuck out well before dawn to meet Bucky, as per the instructions given to him by Thor. He wasn't disappointed by the hour; Crynova was one of the last few beautiful cities on Earth, and Tony had never visited. It seemed strange, now, that he should find Erskine in the one place already nearing perfection, but he also supposed it made sense in a strange way; the man who'd invented the wheel must have stayed far away from the carriages in his day, to avoid the reminder of his greatest and only success. Erskine was probably happy in a cottage somewhere, surrounded by farm and good friends and rewards well-deserved, unencumbered by the responsibility of seeing the dead and the dying.

Bucky, the scruffy haired pirate from before, disavowed him of that notion. Quickly.

"Actually, old man Erskine has been dead for years." He shrugged in the face of Tony's shock, seemingly unaffected by the fact that Tony stumbled. He extended a hand to help him off the ground, but when he did, he grinned, unrepentant. "We're here to see his son, Steve."

"Erskine had a son?"

"Adopted," Bucky confirmed as he led him down the walk, solid stone that was not cracked or bowed by tree roots. In his shabby clothes with mismatched buttons, Bucky looked out of place…and so, Tony realized, did he. "Old family friends, Sarah and Joseph, passed away nearly fifteen years ago. Little Steve—as I knew him—got snapped up by the only person who could afford him. Hence, Erskine." Bucky waved a hand, open dismissal of the subject. He put Tony on edge in more ways than one, as a pirate should. Tony would thank him later, from a distance. "He was a sickly little thing, Steve, but you wouldn't know it to look at him now."

Those words, offered in a string of chatter, caught Tony's attention.

"Yeah?" He looked at his feet to hide the way his pulse hammered in his throat. "Near miraculous?"

"Nearly," Bucky said with another grin, and Tony didn't believe him for a minute. They walked in silence after that, a feat aided by the fact that Tony had decided to come alone and that Natasha and Clint had probably known, and probably let him leave without a word. He didn't know whether to be grateful for the lack of their company, but he was grateful for the option, however shadily it had been offered. He ignored the fact that the only company he'd truly wanted on this final venture had not been offered. Bruce's company…well, needless to say the necessary apology and the explanation still stuck in Tony's throat, and so he had not expected him.

The fact that they hadn't had their usual argument about leaving the ship caused Tony pain, a foolish ache, and he nearly missed when Bucky stopped to one side of the walk. He didn't call Tony back, perhaps because he was a man used to making his own way, but when Tony did realize he walked alone, Bucky at least waited for him to return. Once Tony was also standing on the bare dirt, Bucky pointed to a small house on the side of the road, with a garden out front and a white chain link fence. It looked appallingly normal.

"Steve and Peggy live there, I think, with a couple brats. Watch out for them; you step on one and Steve will toss you out a window, I mean it." Bucky looked like he was cherishing the warning or perhaps a memory, and he looked like he might as well have enforced the threat himself if Steve didn't. Tony didn't ask, and when Bucky cupped a hand around his elbow to pull him helpfully along the way, Tony allowed it. He didn't know if his feet could carry him all that way, didn't know if his heart might give out from the excitement, the chance, the _possibility_.

Meeting Steve Rogers was…an experience. Bucky hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said he was a shock to see, because Rogers looked as close to physical perfection as it was possible for a human to get while still being mortal. He was much taller than Tony, as tall as Thor maybe, and blond, fit as a farmboy but with city wits that had him lock the doors as soon as they were inside. Still, he smiled without too much teeth and welcomed them with open arms even before he knew Tony's name, and meeting his six— _six_ —children had left Tony dizzy with questions of how he and his serious, dark-eyed wife managed. They answer was that they managed with love, and hard-work, and honesty.

It was a bit like one of the inspirational messages Obie had liked to spew once upon a time, and Tony obviously hated that, even nearly hated the perfect little family on sight. He said "nearly" only because Peggy reminded him somewhat of Bruce, and that was enough that he forgave her the _perfection_ of her husband.

It was harder when Steve said that his health was the result of a good diet, a strict regime of exercise, and a loving father. And nothing else.

The super serum was, as Bruce had said, a myth.

****

Coming back empty handed was as sure of a sign of defeat as any announcement could have been, and surprisingly enough, Tony was grateful for that. He wasn't sure how he could have told the others that his gamble had failed, that his last hope had been dashed, without making it sound like the death sentence it was, and Tony—even in his most melodramatic days—had never liked dwelling on the inevitable. When he parted ways with Bucky at the gates of the city, he walked with his head held high and his steps sure, faltering not once as he continued towards the dock.

However, seeing the Charlotte swaying there, once again kept from drifting in the breeze by a thin tether, made him hesitate as he climbed the slates, memories of that conversation nine months ago keeping him in the shadows. There was still time to turn back, he told himself. He had nothing of any great value left on the ship, and nobody would mourn his leaving for very long. Clint and Natasha liked him well enough, but that was fleeting; they had each other, and they needed no one else, not for conversation or company. Bruce…well, Bruce must have seen him exactly as he was these days, a selfish man with foolish hopes. Tony didn't think for a minute that the affection would stay, not when he'd proved himself changeable and flighty, a fraud, a poor risk, a dying man. It was the coward's way, but Tony almost considered leaving without a word. Almost. 

Then he saw Natasha in her captain's hat waiting by the bow of the ship, Clint lying motionless on the planks not four feet from her, and he knew he couldn't just disappear to die. They'd been good to him, and he owed them farewells…and he owed Bruce far more than that. The truth, at least.

When they spotted him, he gave a half-hearted wave, which Clint returned with a flourish before standing. Natasha was more subdued in her greeting, smiling as Tony drew near, and if he hadn't been looking for it, he would never have seen the curious sadness in her eyes.

"You can stay anyway," she said into the silence, knowing exactly what his next words were going to be, as quick to the point as always. "We could always use more help, and you know that propeller isn't quite up to its best anymore."

"Because of me," Tony reminded with a grin, just in case she'd forgotten. Obie…yet another reason for Tony to disappear, to become just a body washed up on the shore. Not that Obie would stop thirsting for power with evidence of his actual demise, but maybe he'd stop hunting ships. Maybe.

Natasha couldn't have known Obie as anything more than a name he'd mentioned before, but she shrugged anyway and kept smiling.

"What's a few missiles between friends?" Clint asked, cheerful. Tony gave a half-hearted chuckle in acknowledgement, all the while watching as Natasha sobered from their false cheer.

"But we mean it, Tony. You can stay. You're…part of our ship, now." Tony shook his head, and her hand came down to touch his shoulder, a light pressure. "And we're not the only ones who feel that way," she reminded gently, her meaning unsubtle but her voice delicate. Tony never would have thought her gentle or delicate, but then, she'd surprised him much in the past few days, weeks, months. In a good way, she'd surprised him.

"Thanks," he said to the offer on the surface, because he knew it would take far too much time to answer her unvoiced other question. Did he _want_ to stay? He couldn't say. He could personally imagine no greater torment than watching a loved one grow weaker with every passing day, could imagine nothing worse than seeing someone strong become bedridden and pale and frail. But…Tony was not them. They looked at him earnestly, with welcome. Clint and Natasha understood death, had no doubt seen far too much of it already; maybe they were the sort of people who would cherish final memories instead of let them cause pain.

Which type Bruce was, Tony had no idea. But, in the last gift he could give, he decided to find out, among other things. A decent man would want to see to his loved ones in his closing months, Tony knew that, and Bruce, despite the misunderstanding of weeks past, was the only loved one Tony had left. Pepper had wished him happiness, Rhodey had wished him luck…Bruce had wished him nothing at all, because he'd never expected goodbye.

It was time to change that. Formally. Whatever else happened, Tony wanted to do this _right_.

He didn't expect Bruce's door to be locked. Perhaps he should have after weeks, after their last words, but Tony hadn't, and the reality caused him pain in no small amount. He rested his hand on the cool metal for an instant, long enough to regain his breath and his determination, and then he pounded on the door with closed fist, an insistent rap that was a poor indicator of his mood. Bruce didn't answer, not the first time or the second, and Tony let his head sag against the door. He tried a different tactic.

"I know you probably don't want to speak to me. I know I…should have been honest with you before. About some of it, if not all." The words echoed through the ship, heard by everyone who cared to listen, but there was still no sound from within Bruce's rooms, no stirring. Tony forced the rest of the words out, words that had never come easy. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry." Tony sighed, the sound of his breath louder than the rest. "I'll miss you," he murmured, because he still couldn't release the words _I love you_ into open air. Too risky.

Although Bruce couldn't have heard him, either his mumblings or what he didn't say, there was a distinct sound from within, a familiar clatter of the chain link fence. Tony held his breath, and when Bruce emerged—wearing new spectacles this time, unshaved and messy like the first time, bags under his eyes—Tony thought he'd never seen anything so _wonderful_.

Bruce looked at him with doubt in his eyes, however, and Tony felt small. He'd expected anger—perhaps even enough anger that Bruce's big green guardian would emerge—but he hadn't expected _doubt_. Disappointment. Sadness.

He began to back away.

"Sorry. I'll go," he blurted, the words thick. Before he had moved more than a few steps, however, Bruce held out his hand. Not a touch; a signal for pause.

"Wait. Tony, wait." He sighed, looking like he was warring with something, and then he stepped aside. "Won’t you come in?"

Tony nodded rapidly, and then his face twisted at the show of _eagerness_. Bruce actually smiled at the expression as he moved aside, back into the depths of the storage room, and Tony followed. Shut the door, out of habit.

The place was a mess still, but what had been fixed was clearly for necessity only. The sink was righted, the bed now mostly patched together by ties of fabric and sheer will, and there was still broken glass next to the upright table. Several pieces of glassware were set in formation, Bruce's classic setup, but others were rejected, chemicals tossed to the side amid shredded books. Bruce had been working, that much was clear; it was also clear that he had been doing little else.

Bruce sat in his stool, the motion slow like a man who'd already been there too long and was not looking forward to returning.

"Did you find Dr. Erskine?" Bruce asked, sounding exhausted and more drained than Tony had ever heard. Tony didn't take it personally; he doubted the bed had been used much in these past few weeks if the depth of the black circles under Bruce's eyes were any indication.

"Yes, and no." At Bruce's look—questioning, familiar, slightly exasperated—Tony found the strength to shrug, and smile. "I found his son, Steve. Strapping kid. Had no idea what I was talking about." Tony leaned against the side of the table, and took comfort in the fact that Bruce didn't lean away or fidget. It made the words come naturally. "Erskine's dead. You were right—there was no serum."

Bruce sighed. "I wish I'd been wrong." He looked at Tony then, over the top of the new frames; Tony had liked the older ones better, but then, they'd been smashed to pieces, and change was inevitable when something broke. "In any case, I have a…going-away present for you." He sounded rueful, but then he smiled, holding out a slim box, real wood with an appealing design.

Tony accepted it reflexively, his heart heavier than the item itself. He swallowed, and the plans he'd had—apologizing, asking if Bruce wanted him to stay, if he still cared at all—evaporated. Or at least they should have.

Bruce, however, had a million and one tells, and he was looking away again, his hands clenched on the tabletop. Tony wondered what he'd do when he left, said his goodbye—smash something, maybe.

Tony made his decision, and he put the box back on the table, unopened.

"I don't need it, or want it." Bruce looked startled but not mad, and Tony pushed. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Tony—"

"No, look." Tony stubbornly crossed his arms, refusing to pick up the box again. "I could apologize forever if I wanted to, because you more than deserve that. Frankly, though, I don't have that kind of time, and you'd get sick of me after ten minutes. So, here's what I'm proposing instead." He pointed at Bruce with one finger, a challenge to counter his offer. "I'm staying. You don't have to forgive me, or talk to me, or look at me again, but I'm going to be _here_ , on this ship. It's not goodbye just yet, and I think…I think that's a good thing. For both of us." Bruce didn't respond immediately, and Tony gentled his voice. "Okay?"

"Tony, there's nothing to forgive." Bruce's expression shifted, becoming self-depreciating and familiar. "You didn't have many options. I understand." Tony swallowed, thought _no, Bruce, no, don't think that_ , but the words had barely crossed his mind when Bruce once again nudged the box in his direction. "This will help, I promise."

Tony reluctantly picked it up a second time, and he opened it, humoring Bruce mostly. Inside was a small vial of brilliant, bright blue fluid, one of Bruce's concoctions.

"What is it?" No doubt it was worth a fortune, but Tony could not foresee that helping. He'd had a fortune before, after all.

"A serum," Bruce answered promptly, and Tony shot him a startled look. "A stabilizing serum. For your transplant." Tony continued to stare at him in silence, and Bruce removed his spectacles, the better to gesture with. He was in a lecturing mood; Tony had missed that. "I'd heard that Floratini has begun replacing human organs with animal ones, pigs mainly. It's much cheaper, and if the body doesn't reject it…" He trailed off, looking sheepish as he pointed to the box. "That will prevent your body from rejecting it."

"You're—" Tony glanced down at the serum that seemed to glow, and then back up. "You're helping me get a new heart?" An animal heart, maybe, but Tony was not as opposed to this as he could have been. Because Bruce…"This is why I haven't seen you for two weeks?"

"Well, I had to make it from scratch. There are no recipes, and that…takes time." Bruce smiled at him again, faintly, and Tony wanted to kiss him, but knew he wouldn't be welcome. "I told you, didn't I? There's nothing to forgive." Bruce put his spectacles back on and looked back to his work table, empty of notes but not distractions. "Now you can go home." His voice clipped the last word, as if he would have given anything to cut it off, to take it back. Tony understood, but more than that, he agreed.

What was home anyway?, he wondered. Putting Pepper and Rhodey in danger, leaving the company and contentment he'd found, just so he could live a wealthy but shallow life? It had been easy, yes, and he missed that. Longed for it, even.

But he'd never been happy, and the realization—the _reality_ of it—made Tony clench his hands tight on the box in his hands. He was happy on the Charlotte. He was happy with Bruce. He was happy in a musty old room or in the remains of a bed or when his feet ached from standing or when he didn't have two coins to rub together. He was simply…happy. 

"Do you think I'm stupid for wanting to stay anyway?"

Bruce inhaled sharply, but when Tony glanced at him, he was frozen, taut.

"You shouldn't joke about something like that," he said, voice as stiff as his shoulders, and Tony set the box down again. It would stay there for when he needed it, but right then, it was the furthest from his focus.

Tony reached out a hand to touch Bruce—anywhere, it didn't matter where—but Bruce's hand caught his in midair. When he looked up, his eyes were earnest and brown behind glass, and more than that, they were _hopeful_.

"You shouldn't joke," he repeated, and Tony smiled.

"I'm not joking," he replied, the words coming out fainter and fonder than he'd intended; he would have to work on that, but right then, he just raised his other hand, slowly, to stroke Bruce's cheek. "Bruce, can I stay?"

Bruce nodded, the bristles of his beard tickling Tony's palm, and when Bruce kissed him then, shooting forward with eagerness and desperation and so much love, it felt exactly like coming home should have felt. And in the space of time when he could still think, Tony thought—for the first time—about his future. 

As far as he could see, he had nothing by clear skies ahead of him.

****

End


End file.
